


Every Colour You See

by centennnial



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Art School, Angst, Art, Cancer, Car Accidents, Color Blindness, Colourblind Lance, Comfort, Crying, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Getting to Know Each Other, Head Injury, Hospitals, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Korean Keith (Voltron), LOLcats - Freeform, M/M, Memes, Mutual Pining, Night Terrors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prosthesis, Roommates, San Francisco, Slow Burn, Smoking, So Very Many Hugs, Strangers to Friends, abuse mention, art students, fixing friendships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-01 17:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 53,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8631979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centennnial/pseuds/centennnial
Summary: Lance always wanted to be an artist. But after a car accident, he's left with a rare disorder called monochromacy; making him unable to see any colour.Keith is a rebellious foster kid with a photographic memory and a passion for drawing, making safe places in his art, pieced together through photos in his mind.The two become roommates through a great coincidence, living together until the landlord eventually kicks them out. After time spent between them, Lance starts to notice some colour in his life... In more ways than one.





	1. Myopia

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Every Colour You See](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123792) by [superLemonPie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superLemonPie/pseuds/superLemonPie)



> i'm here with super self-indulgent klance. i hope you enjoy, and i recommend listening to this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMvzY05i-q8 while you read this because the entire thing is based off of it. thanks!

** myopia **

mʌɪˈəʊpɪə/

_noun_

 

the quality of being short-sighted.

lack of foresight or intellectual insight.

 

* * *

* * *

 

When he was twelve, he decided he wanted to draw for the rest of his life.

 

He was one of those kids who always doodled in the margins of his books, sketched on corners of tables and scribbled all over his arms and legs. He was a master of ink, well-versed in pen strokes and the scratch of pencils on paper. All his life he had been like that, a person who passed time and waved thoughts by with a flick of his wrist, the twist of a brush. He knew colours better than most people knew the alphabet and had the scribbles to show for it.

It wasn’t until he was ten and in the midsts of foster care and elementary school did he decide that he wanted to draw, paint and _create_ for the rest of his life.

It started out with a teacher telling him that he was a good artist. He had never seen himself like that. An artist was something that he had never thought he was or could be. And a good one? It was a shock to him.

He thought about it for a long time, drew pictures to pass the days.

He didn’t have a speciality, he just drew whatever came to mind, painted with the colours he had at hand; penciled or inked. He moved from place to place, shuffled around by the foster care system and only ever bringing along a notebook and a pen to each new doorstep. It was constant, familiar in the corner of every new room, a reminder that no matter where he went, he was still the same.

When he was twelve, he decided that he wanted to dedicate his life to the one thing that made him feel happy, comfortable and worth something.

It hadn’t been easy. Though he was good, he didn’t have the natural talent like so many other kids did. He could draw anything, but he always felt he was lacking in something, that his art was just slightly _off_.

But Keith Kogane was not one to give up.

 

He struggled his way through middle school, a fight that ended in many zeroes on tests and a surplus of scribbles on his desks and papers. He didn’t need math, science or geography for his art, so he didn’t bother. Before he went to highschool, he was confronted about his lack of effort, the sheer apathy in him for everything but art.

He was honest, brutally so, and was threatened with repeating the year if he didn’t step up.

In a fit of frustration and rage over the fact that they just didn’t _understand,_ he painted.

But not where he was supposed to.

 

He sits in front of the library, overlooking a large patch of grass, a little unkempt and around ankle-height. The sun reflects off of the fresh white concrete, casting a glow from beneath his feet which he swings idly back and forth a foot above the ground. He checks his phone again, looking at the chat history between a number he hasn’t bothered saving and himself.

No longer under the aegis of the foster care system, he had to find someplace to live. Luckily for him, he found an ad posted on craigslist (why?) from a kid who had just lost a roommate and needed a new one. Desperately.

He seemed like a bit of a loser judging by their communications so far, but he was all Keith had. He checks the message again, making sure he’s in the right place at the right time.

 

 **_From (_ ** _70)86706612:_

yeah lol. sounds good. meet me in front of the library @ 9:30 and ill show u around. first class isnt until 3 today so u can have a look around @ the place.

 

Definitely a loser. And a late loser at that.

At ten in the morning, he still wasn’t there. He was starting to feel stupid, waiting for this boy he didn’t even know in a new place he had never been in. Two years of community college for nothing but sitting around, waiting with his legs swinging back and forth on a concrete slab separating the sidewalks from a row of plants.

He sighs, pulling his bag from his shoulder and rummaging in it. His hand finds the creased and beaten cardboard of the book cover, adorned with swirls and lines. The ink is smeared in places and the book is heavy with use. He opens it, pulling a pen from the spiral and uncapping it. He opens it, flicking past pages filled with pencil marks, paint swatches and scrawls. He begins sketching the outline of a scene in his mind’s eye. Part of it he takes from a cafe he spotted on his way in, quaint on the inside and shaded seats on the outside. He sketches out the chairs, tables, the shopfront. He uses images coaxed from the depths of his memory, a time when he lived on the coast of California, a sleepy beach town. He brings back the ocean and puts it on the paper, making the chairs float, fish crawl beneath the tables and beckoning coral to cling to the storefront. He gets lost in the creation of line on paper, shape on a blank sheet. He feels at home.

He’s brought back to reality by the light touch of a hand on his shoulder. He looks up. Blinks once, twice at the face of a boy with the most _startling_ blue eyes he has ever seen.

The boy smiles when he sees he’s gotten the other’s attention.

“Hi,” he says, his voice like caramel and honey. “Are you Keith?”

 

+++

 

They’re sitting at the cafe, a more realistic version of the drawing he had drawn only moments before. Keith clutches a coffee in his hands, no milk and no sugar. The boy across from him chose a mocha with six sugars, which Keith personally thinks is disgusting, but who is he to judge?

“Hey,” He says, bringing Keith’s attention to him. The air is cold and he bundles himself into his scarf, wrapping bare fingers around the cup tighter to fend off the biting wind. “Are you ready to go to my place? It’s like, just out of campus. So it’s not an official dorm, but only college kids live in the building, so I guess it could be…” He trails off, looking at Keith expectantly.

Keith gives a slight smile, trying his best to subdue the nerves. He’s never been one for new people, especially a boy he was going to _live_ with for at least another two years if everything went well.

“Sounds good,” he says, voice muffled by the scarf, hands loosening from his cup as he moves to stand.

“Which way?” He asks. The other boy gets to his feet as well, hurriedly and with his coffee in hand, empty sugar packets flying away in a gust of wind. He points in the direction opposite the library, the East area.

Keith nods and starts walking and his soon-to-be roommate hurries to catch up. He falls into step beside him as they walk.

Keith casts a gaze towards him, unable to recall a name. It’s unusual for him to not remember something, a foreign feeling in the pit of his stomach, the recesses of his mind. He looks at the nameless boy as they walk. He’s not dressed for the weather, only a light jacket, a Ghostbusters shirt and a pair of jeans in the near-winter cold. It doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, unlike Keith who was wearing at least five layers of clothing.

“I really liked your drawing,” He says, that voice pulling his gaze from his clothing choice and instead to those eyes of his once again. “It reminds me of Lara Zankoul.”

Keith ducks his head. “Thanks,” he mutters through a blush his scarf covers. After all these years, he’s still a little bit foreign to compliments , still doesn’t know what to say. “Um, sorry, but, what’s your name again?” The nameless boy cocks his head a little and Keith messes with his hair, the feeling making him feel a little less flustered, a habit to calm him down. “Sorry. I usually am really good at names, so I…” He trails off, waiting for the other boy to say something. A habit picked up after years of being cut off. The boy smiles a little, a bit of a cocky smirk.

“Lance,” He replies. “Lance Mcclain. It’s a bit unusual, so maybe that’s why? But don’t worry about it.”

Keith tries to return the smiles, but it comes out shaky and uncertain. “I won’t forget again,” he replies.

He looks once again at the path they’re walking down. Somewhere along the line they took a right out of campus and now roamed the street on the cusp of the real world and college..

He looks at the boy- no. Not the boy, Lance, waiting for some form of direction or commentary of where they are. He isn’t given one, Lance instead involved in looking at the people he passes by, the clouds in the sky. He has a look in his eyes and an expression on his face that’s calculating, mapping out the shadows and lines of the things he sees; figuring out the placement and the pigments of his surroundings.

Keith fiddles with the tassles on the end of his scarf to keep his mind busy as they walk. He loves this scarf dearly, the softness and woven texture of it always comforting. The red that it used to be has faded into a sort of pink due to compulsive washing of it in a bid to keep its softness.

“So why art?” Lance asks suddenly, out of the blue. Keith startles, dropping the end of his scarf. He rights himself quickly and shrugs it off.

“Just something I’ve always loved doing,” he responds. Lance nods. “What about you?”

“Pretty much the same,” he replies. “I love the way that you can kind of… I dunno, remember things through art? It’s like taking a photo but with more heart to it, you know?”

Keith thinks about it for a moment. He thinks of the way he takes photos from his mind and smashes them together to create his art. He nods. “I understand that,” he says.

 

They walk in silence again, Keith finding more confidence in his footing and Lance walking with less of a cocky sort of strut. Keith gets caught up in the house numbers lining the street, lining them up in neat lines in his memory, taking stock of the houses they belonged to. Brown brick house, smooth as chocolate makes up number 309. Tired weatherboard painted blue but chipped all over, revealing rusted metal and flecks of the original white is 311. A large apartment block duo, one a dark grey like a storm and the other painted a peachy orange make up 313 and 315. A small semi, dark purple like an old bruise, number obscured by high-reaching ferns makes up what he assumes is 317…

He stops, realising that Lance’s footsteps are no longer beside him. He looks to his side, then behind him, swivelling around to see Lance who’s giving him a look he can’t place. He brightens when Keith’s eyes meet his.

“There he is!” He says, walking up to him. “You totally zoned out for a second there.” Keith feels his face heat up, embarrassed to have become so lost in thought.

“Sorry,” he says, ducking into his scarf. “I was looking at the houses.”

Lance points to the apartment block duo that they had just walked passed. “Well that one’s mine,” he says, pointing to the peach-coloured one. Salmon? Lance pauses, corrects himself. “Well, ours I guess.”

“I guess so,” Keith says. “Did you have a choice in colour or?”

Lance lets out a laugh at that and Keith looks at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion. For one, it was the first time he had heard him laugh. Firsts were strange for Keith because he tended to stay in his comfort zone, following a routine that had been set for years. So when something happened for the first time, it was a strange thing. A spanner in the works of his very clockwork life. He didn’t know if he liked it or not.

Second, there was a bit of bitterness to Lance’s laugh. He’d known him for all of an hour, but hadn’t seen a single hint of negativity in him, not even a little subtlety that would make him think so. And Keith was good at picking up on details. Every minor thing that he could take in he remembered. His brain had a habit of clinging onto every sound, smell, taste, sight and thing he felt. He could replay them whenever he needed them, bringing up the smallest thing like the name he gave to the duck that laid eggs near the lake when he was three and not a foster child. It was Okami, which he thought was hilarious at the time.

It left him drained and exhausted often, the inability to not notice. In places where there was too much, he would breakdown. One time he went to a party in middle school and ended up throwing up everywhere because there was just too much.

So the fact that Lance had a bitterness to his laugh made him uncomfortable, his stomach felt wrong.

“I didn’t have a choice in colour,” he replies to Keith’s earlier question. He grins, like he’s laughing at a joke from days before. He starts walking and Keith follows him.

The foyer is small and a bit cluttered, bikes filling the small space. The stairs make up the rest of the area, only two flights until the top. Lance points up the stairs.

“Up the top,” he says. “Number seven.”

Keith nods, following Lance up the stairs, taking in the lights on the ceiling, laced with black spray paint of other art students messing around, scattered bits and pieces. He likes it, it feels like a home to him.

They get to a door with an upside down seven hanging from a screw.

“So the door’s always open,” Lance says. “Literally and figuratively. But sometimes it jams up so you have to give it a good kick. But the bottom hinge is broken, so if you kick it it might fall off. Also, there’s an old gift card under the mat so if it gets stuck you can use that to pry it open…”

He trails off. Keith tries his best smile, but feels the nerves getting to him. Another first today, the first time in this house.

Lance shoulders the door, almost falls into the apartment in expectation of it jamming.

Keith walks in, looking down at the ground to take his shoes off. Lance moves inside, dumps his bag somewhere in the house. When Keith looks up, he gasps in surprise, stepping into the house (for the first time).

 

The apartment is small. When he walks in, the kitchen lies to his right and a couch that signifies a living room on the left. It’s a bit cluttered, things everywhere in an organised mess. What gets him is the wallls.

All over the walls are multicoloured drawings and paintings, even what looks like an engraving. People’s faces over the backdrop of an ocean, so heavy with detail that they look semi-real from his distance.

The colours certainly don’t work well together and he notices that every face is only one colour in different shades. He runs his hands over one of them, a woman with a warm face and hair in a bun. Crows feet by her eyes and a crinkle on the side of her mouth from smiling.

“These are incredible,” Keith murmurs, looking at them with wide eyes. Lance looks up and grins.

“Thanks,” he replies. He walks over to stand by Keith. “This one’s my mama. It’s probably my favourite in the house.”

“Doesn’t your landlord get upset about it?”

“My landlord hasn’t come around here since I moved in two years ago,” Lance shrugs. Keith stops looking at the details of the drawing, done in oil pastel, and instead looks Lance up and down.

“Why just the one colour?” He asks, tilting his head to the art on the walls. The  drawing of his mother is  all a deep orange, pressed down hard in places to make the contours and fold of her face.

“Well,” he says, putting his hands in his jean pockets. “I don’t want to mess them up by using colours that don’t work together, so it’s easier to just use the one.”

Keith laughs. “Isn’t that why you’re studying art though?” he asks. “So you can learn what colours go with what?”

Lance looks away for a moment, and Keith feels as though he’s said something wrong. He frowns.

“Uh,” he begins. “It’s not that I don’t know how to make colours work together, it’s kind of just that I can’t see them. “

Keith’s eyes widen and he feels his jaw drop. _What._

“I thought I told you?” Lance continues, chuckling a little to himself. “I’m completely colourblind.”

When Keith says nothing, Lance presses on.

“It’s not a secret or anything, sorry to surprise you like that though.”

“D-don’t worry about it,” Keith manages to get in, giving Lance another shaky smile. “Were you born with it?”

He shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, pushing his dark hair from his forehead with a hand. “I was in a car accident when I was maybe eight? Massive retina and fovea damage, completely destroyed my ability to see colour. I also have pretty shitty eyesight so I have to wear these super thick glasses to read and draw.”

“Wow, that uh-” Keith looks at his hands, unable to meet those startling blue eyes. “That really sucks.”

Lance shrugs. “It used to more than it does now,” he says, walking towards the kitchen and opening the fridge. “But I learned to live with it. I can still draw and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Do you want something to eat?”

Shockingly positive, Keith observes. It also explains the bitterness when Keith mentioned the colour of the two apartment blocks.

“What do you have?” He asks in response to Lance’s question.

“Peanut butter.” Lance responds, quickly and without a pause.

“What?” Keith asks.

“Peanut butter.” Lance states, again. As if it’s obvious what he’s talking about.

“Are you offering me a sandwich?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. Confused.

“I’m offering you peanut butter, Keith.” Keith thinks about it, shakes his head.

“I’ll pass.” He says. “Where do I put my stuff?”


	2. Hypermetropia/Turquoise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> keith goes to his first class while asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit short and unedited, so bear with me. hope you enjoy.

** hypermetropia **

ˌhʌɪpəmɪˈtrəʊpɪə/

_noun_

 long-sightedness.

 

* * *

* * *

Lance decides he should have woken Keith up sooner. 

In his defense, he had no idea he would be so hard to drag out of bed. 

He seemed like a morning person. He had that jumpy stressed out demeanor that usually makes an early riser. Sure, he was a bit lacking in a sunny disposition, but he hadn’t thought it would be this bad. Or at least, hadn’t figured it would  matter to him. 

“ _ KEEEEEEEEEITH.”  _ He calls for the millionth time, resorting to shaking him violently after about twenty minutes of yelling his name. Keith tries to roll away from him with tired groans, mumbling something under his breath that sounds vaguely like “fuck off”. Lance checks the time on his phone. It’s dangerously close to class time and he doubts his instructor would be happy if he shows up late the first day back. Again. 

Leaving his new roommate probably isn’t the best idea either. It’s a bit rude and selfish, and having someone think of him that way right off the bat is not something Lance wants. He’d rather people figure out that he’s a piece of trash on their own. So he does what any moral person would do. 

He picks up his sleeping roommate and slings him over his shoulder like a fucking sack of potatoes. He’s lucky Keith’s pretty light and also smaller than him, it makes his now very restricted walking a little easier. 

Despite being dragged out of bed and carried through the apartment, Keith remains fast asleep. Lance manages to grab his and Keith’s bag (containing who knows what other than a sketchbook) and waddles down the stairs as fast as his long legs will carry him. He checks his watch. 

2:59. 

Lance is not a runner. He could be with how ridiculously long his legs are, but his limbs had always grown faster than his brain could catch up with, leaving him a stumbling mess incapable of moving faster than a brisk walk. But that didn’t stop him from legging it, roommate over one shoulder and their stuff over the other. A few people wandering the campus stopped to witness the spectacle, eyes squinted in disbelief over what they were seeing. 

Through it all; the jarring method of Lance’s run, the sounds of baffled students and the constant string of curses falling from Lance’s mouth, Keith refused to wake up. 

At some point, Lance completely forgets that he’s even there, the weight just becoming a part of the discomfort of  _ sprinting a mile.   _ He makes it to the door, barging into the room with a heated face and a panted ‘fuck’ dying on his lips. 

The class eyes him as he appears, people looking over easels and turning their heads to get a look at the newcomer. Recovering his breath, he gives a smile and a weak wave. 

“Hi,” he calls into the awkward silence, heavy as a rock around him. “I’m Lance. Am I late?” 

He looks around expectantly, willing someone to say  _ something. _ Then immediately regretting it when a woman, the tutor of the class, gets to her feet. 

“Yes, Lance,” she says. Her voice is laden with a thick British accent, one that haunts his nightmares after two years of hearing it. She takes off a paint stained apron and sets it down on a desk pushed up against the wall, walking towards him with easy yet threatening strides. “You are quite late. And on your first day back too.” The class continues to watch with tired yet amused eyes, this probably being the best thing they’ve seen all day. She stops for a moment, looking past his eyes and at something just on his shoulder… 

“Are you carrying a  _ person _ ?” She asks, her voice coming out as an amused gasp. Lance raises an eyebrow in confusion, then the other when he remembers. 

“Oh yeah,” he says casually, hoping she doesn’t notice the sweat pouring from his face like fucking Niagara Falls. “This is Keith. He’s in this class and my roommate, we met today. It’s his fault that I’m late, by the way. He wouldn’t wake up.” 

The woman in front of him rubs the bridge of her nose, trying to process what Lance is going on about. 

“You’re telling me,” she begins, shifting her stance from ‘attack’ to ‘interrogate’. “That this boy, who you just met today, wouldn’t wake up, so you  _ carried his sleeping body  _ to class late.”

Lance nods slowly. “Uh… yes?” he replies, shifting nervously. “Was that not clear?”

She shakes her head. Not for a lack of understanding, but for a deep disappointment in Lance’s existence as a whole. 

“I’ll let you get away with being that this time,” she begins, cutting Lance’s brightened smile short with a raised voice. “BUT, if it happens again, I’m not filling you in on the lesson. Go put your friend down on one of the desks and pull out a pencil. I’ll let you know what’s going on when you sit down.” 

  


+++

Keith wakes up with the bleariness of a dreamless nap, the kind that makes you feel as though you’ve simply blinked rather than lay unconscious for hours. He’s aware first of the bright light of the room, then the heavy and earthen tones of paint filling his nostrils. He closes his eyes again, reveling in the familiar and calming scent before it hits him. 

He is not in his new apartment anymore. 

The surface beneath him is too firm to be a mattress or the carpeted floor of his bedroom, the light around him too harsh to come out of a single window. He sits bolt upright, flinging his upper half to a sitting position with the force of a loaded spring. Pain blossoms in his forehead, a rose blooming from the cavity of his brain; hands flinging up to contain it. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” manages to escape, tumbling from his lips in a thick hiss, his vision filled with a paint-stained table and the jeans covering his legs. 

“He’s awake!” someone calls, an unfamiliar voice that prickles with disinterest. A tattle-tale child with the deep voice of a man going on twenty. Keith blinks away the tears forming in his eyes and raises his head to get a look at his surroundings. 

A circle of stools and easels sit in the centre of the room around something obscured from his view. Paint stains the floor, tables, even the ceiling. Unfinished projects lie on drying racks, plastic tables covered in newspapers and strings criss-crossing between the walls. The colour of paints staining paper and clay, the sunlight filtering through wide windows, scrawls over the desks done in pencil and that familiar scent of art; it makes him feel at home, at peace. A little bit less stressed over the fact that he has just woken up in an unfamiliar room filled with strangers and immediately having to deal with a rapidly forming bruise on his forehead. 

He looks around for a familiar face, searching for an anchor to something that isn’t so new, so foreign to him. 

He’s relieved to see Lance, a weak yet relieved smile forming on his lips. He’s behind a canvas perched on an easel, the opposite end of the circle to Keith. He gives a small wave, trying to capture his attention. Lance, seeing movement in the corner of his vision, looks up. Double-takes, smiles and gives a wave, standing up. 

He walks up to Keith who’s staring at him with a look of relief. Something familiar that isn’t a smell. 

“Okay so before you kill me,” Lance begins, raising his hands up in a form of defense. “We were running like,  _ super  _ late and if I’m late to my first class Allura might actually murder me, so I had to do  _ something _ -” 

Keith stops him, shaking his head a little at all of the new information, raising a hand to stop the torrent of words. “Woah, slow down,” he says. “Who’s Allura? And where am I?” 

“Allura’s our instructor for still life,” Lance replies, turning around to seek her out and pointing. “That one. And we’re in our first class. You wouldn’t wake up and I didn’t want to be late on the first day, so I carried you here.” 

Keith pauses just as his eyes find Allura, unmissable in the crowd of tired students. She catches his eyes while he’s frozen, processing what Lance has said, and gives him a small wave. 

His eyes flicker back to Lance, who’s leaning against the table Keith is sitting on. Underneath all the paint, it’s a slightly grey white. 

“You…” He starts, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Carried me here?” 

“That’s what I said,” Lance replies, brushing it off with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Keith looks him up and down. Lance may or may not be the lankiest boy he has ever met to date, and he has met  _ a lot.  _ He’s not shocked that he was dragged to class while asleep, no. It’s just that he was dragged to class asleep by  _ Lance _ . 

“ _ You  _ carried me here,” Keith mumbles, not a question but a statement. Lance huffs, crossing his arms. 

“I don’t know why this is so hard for you to understand,” Lance replies. “Seriously it’s-” 

He’s cut off abruptly by the smell of cloves and mint, sweeping across them as a cool breeze. Keith turns, finding himself face-to-face with his new instructor. 

She’s standing with her hands on hips, weight balanced on one leg. Her eyes, a pale robin’s egg blue, drill into him unrelentingly. There’s a sternness woven into the loose curls of her white hair, wrapped around her waist in the same way her lilac dress is. 

“Hello,” she says easily, and her voice reminds him of jumping into the deep end of a pool when it’s too cold. Unable to escape the icy touch fast enough. She smiles, dark lips pulled tight over white teeth. “I’m Allura.” 

“K-Keith,” he replies, looking anywhere but her eyes. He can feel his heart pounding, the way it always does when he meets someone new. He finds it difficult to figure out what to do and when, traditional formalities like hand-shaking and introductions going over his head. And Allura is certainly not making it easy for him. He nibbles anxiously on the end of his thumb, distracting himself from the flurry of thoughts ( _ you should have shook her hand, you should have smiled back, you should move, you should get out of here…)  _ racing around his head. He suddenly the warmth of a hand on his, pulling it away his stubby nails from their place between his teeth and guiding them to his lap instead. He looks up, confused and Lance is there, smiling at Allura. 

“I told you his name when I carried him in here,” he says easily, leaning against the  table Keith is sitting on. “Allura likes to freak out the cheeses, but she’s actually really lovely.” 

“Oh,” is all Keith can say, mind still reeling from everything going on at once. He can feel it building up behind his eyelids, sparks and flickers of images igniting into a flame, bits of sounds turning to white noise in his ears. Lance looks at him, noticing a shift in his posture, a blankness to his dark eyes. 

“Can you paint lemons?” Lance asks. “Because we’re painting lemons. Like, not painting them onto a canvas, we are literally painting the lemons.” 

Keith looks up at Lance and can’t help but chuckle a little. 

“Why?” He asks, getting to his feet and asserting himself as the shortest person of the three present. 

“Because painting lemons onto a canvas is boring,” Allura chimes in. “I wanted everyone to try something different. You have to paint a lemon to look like not a lemon.” 

Keith raises his eyebrows, baffled. Allura sighs and spins on her heel, an art smock swirling around her like a stained ballgown. Lance gives him an apologetic grin once she’s disappeared into a storeroom, the smell of cloves still heavy in the air. 

“What’s a  cheese?” Keith asks suddenly, surprising Lance a little. 

“You know,” he replies. “Like a cheesedick.” 

“Cheesestick?” 

“No, cheesedick.” Lance sighs, a light laugh on his breath. “It’s what they called new people in Vietnam during the war. I guess Allura thinks we’re soldiers or something. Soldiers of art or whatever.” 

Keith nods, understanding. They stand in silence for a few moments, Keith biting the end of his thumb in the awkwardness of the quiet. Before it becomes unbearable, Allura appears with two small objects in her hands and a few rolls of glossy paper. Without a word, she gives a lemon and a pear to Keith, propping the paper on the floor. 

He looks at them, confused. He’s starting to realise that he’ll probably spend the majority of his two years here feeling confused. 

“Why’d you give me a lemon and a pear?” Keith asks. He’s lucky facial expressions are not his forte, or the wicked grin Allura gives him would have sent q shiver up his spine. 

“I gave you two lemons,” Allura says, hands on hips. “Look closer.” 

He does as he’s told, looking at the pear-lemon in his right hand with a scrutinising eye. He eventually catches a small glimpse of the fruit it was previously, a light shimmer of yellow beneath a coating of green paint. He scratches at the gap with a bitten down nail, finding more evidence pointing to the pear being a lemon. 

“Not everything is what your eyes want it to be,” Allura says. “We rely on our senses, but they have a habit of not always telling us the truth. Learn to look at more than what’s on the surface.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you had a rad time reading pt 2 of this shit-storm. stick around for more (i have a lot of angsty happiness piled up for later).


	3. Astigmatism/Coquelicot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith feels some serious deja-vu at his next class, Lance is annoying and Shiro is a literal meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays everyone :) hope you enjoy my little gift/curse to you! also, i have a tumblr here: http://tea-pun.tumblr.com/

** astigmatism **

əˈstɪɡmətɪz(ə)m/

_noun_

 a defect in the eye or in a lens caused by a deviation from spherical curvature,

which results in distorted images,

as light rays are prevented from meeting at a common focus.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

“So how’re you holding up?” 

The voice drifts over to him, now a familiar ring in his ears like a favourite quote or song, drawing his attention from racing thoughts to a conversation. He tugs at his scarf, loosening it around his neck to give him room to speak. 

“Pretty good,” he replies, surprised at the fact himself. “I guess the nap helped.” He adds, jokingly. 

Lance laughs at that, which makes a smile tug at Keith’s lips, chapped in the dry autumn air. 

“I’d fucking hope so,” Lance huffs, but his laugh is still an echo in his voice. “I would’ve been pretty pissed if I had to carry you  to class and you  _ didn’t  _ feel rested.” 

“Well…” Keith says, side-eyeing Lance to gauge his reaction, purposely rattling him. 

“Don’t say anything,” Lance warns, that same good-natured tone shining through despite his words. They walk in a comfortable silence for a few more minutes. Keith’s eyes and mind wander from the finished conversation. Leaves, red orange and yellow, dapple the floor in a mosaic of colour, reminding him of the stained glass windows in a church. Fragments of green still cling to some, blowing carelessly through the chill of the wind. He watches them, looking to the ground and finding one that catches his eye. Picking it up, he turns it over between cold fingers, watching the light bending over it; cementing the image in his mind. It stands out against his pale skin, bright red gradiented towards a crimson nearer to the stem. He smiles before looking up at Lance who stares back at him, head cocked to the side. 

“A leaf?” he asks, hands in his jacket pockets and blue eyes watching him. “What for?” 

Keith looks at it again. “It’s just a really nice red,” Keith replies with a shrug, turning it faster until it moves like helicopter blades. Lance gives him a bit of a sad smile at that. Not the dead loved one kind  of sad, more of a ‘nobody told you where the party was?’ kind of sad. A sad that pities the other person more than itself. 

“Oh, that’s neat then,” he replies. It takes Keith a second to put two and two together, his eyes going wide when the pieces fall into place. 

“Oh fuck,” he stammers, feeling the leaf slip from his fingers. “I’m really sorry I-” 

Lance laughs, cutting Keith off mid-sentence. 

“No worries,” he reassures, his blue eyes looking for the leaf on the ground. He picks it up and gives it back to Keith. “I asked. And besides, I kind of like hearing about colours. I can still remember them and it’s nice to paint them over things where I can, you know? Like a black and white movie being restored in colour.” 

He looks at Keith at the end of his sentence, not quite expectant though far from unwilling. Keith looks back at the leaf between his fingers, an idea striking him. 

“Well this leaf is a really bright red,” he starts, pointing to the tip of it. “Like uh, a stoplight I guess? But then it fades into a really deep red, like a blood red, at the end.” He moves his finger to point at the darker part. “And the little veins here are a bit more washed out, but kind of the same crimson as the bottom.” He turns his attention back to Lance who looks a little shocked. 

“ _ Mierde, _ ” Lance says with a small whistle. Amazed. “What a leaf. You ever think of writing poetry?” His voice turns sarcastic at the last sentence, a cocky smirk comfortably resting on his face. Keith gives him a less than light shove, ducking his chin into his scarf to cover his own grin. 

“Fuck you,” he mumbles, but the laugh is there on his breath, echoed by Lance’s as he stumbles across the sidewalk, clutching at his sides. 

They continue walking, chests trembling with barely concealed laughter, Keith mumbling “poetry” at one point with a sense of disgusted humour. The leaf finds its way into his jacket pocket with a subtle hand movement. They tread in silence for a few more minutes, Keith soaking up every detail around him, drawing up a map in his mind’s eye. 

“What’s that building?” he asks, pointing towards a squat shack-looking building, vines growing from neglected wood panels and dirt-stained windows. In his head, it’s crammed between bird’s eye views of Building 2A (Peeling canary yellow with white accents) and Building 2B (red bricks and black window panes). It’s nameless, not belonging in his clearly labelled map. Lance tilts his head, looking at it. He shrugs. 

“Dunno,” he replies. “Never noticed it before.”

“You’ve been here for two years and you never gave it a thought?” Keith asks, more of a statement rather than a question; a jibe at Lance’s expense. Lance turns defensive, frowning and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I had bigger fish to fry,” he replies, voice a little mopey. He takes a right and Keith hurries to follow him. Keith notices that the back of his jacket has a patch sewn onto it. A single word, embroidered into the white strip in black thread; ‘invincible’. Keith finds it fitting. “You can ask Shiro, he’ll probably tell you the entire history of the building as well as the names of every single person who worked on its construction.”

“Shiro?” 

“He’s the instructor for all of the boring art stuff,” Lance says. “Like perspective and 3D shapes. Basics or whatever. He’s a really cool guy and his work is really fantastic, but don’t get him started on fucking  _ architecture _ .” 

Keith snorts at that, but something about the name nags at him. He lets it slip for now, seeing the path leading to a building and Lance heading straight for the door. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Keith mumbles, more to himself than anything. Lance pushes the door open and walks in, Keith following closely behind. 

  


+++

  


The interior is vastly different to the room he had been in just before. The space is all angles, especially in comparison to Allura’s round and flowing classroom. The desks are rectangular, the room’s corners more defined in their emptiness (Allura’s room was filled with shelves and cabinets pushed into every edge and corner, making them softer somehow). A few people sit in chairs, one at the front and two on separate desks in the middle. He looks at Lance, grateful for someone to help him adjust to his current situation, but not giving him the satisfaction of knowing by remaining silent. 

“Where do you sit?” Keith asks. Lance points vaguely at the back. 

“Usually there when I’m in this class,” he replies. “But I’m only here once every fortnight because I’m more of a portraiture person, already did a lot of my basics….” 

He trails off, the sentence hanging like smoke in the air. 

“Okay,” Keith says, stepping closer to the tables. “Let’s go in.” 

“Oh,” Lance pauses, evaluates. “I’m not in this class today. I’ve got Iverson for anatomy right now.” He says it like it’s nothing, Keith fills the silence with a open-mouthed stare. 

“So I’m on my own here?” Keith asks, a little stunned. So much for playing it cool. 

“I’ll come pick you up after.”

“Wow,” Sarcastic. “How considerate.” 

“You’ll be fine.” Lance says. “Shiro’s really nice. Ask him about the building you saw or space and you’ll be his favourite for ever, honestly.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Keith murmurs, already turning away. He can’t help feeling a little betrayed; like biting into a chocolate chip cookie only to find out it’s filled with raisins. 

“Now I’ve got to run  _ very  _ fast or Iverson will be on my ass like a pair of reaaaally snug briefs,” Lance smiles a little at his own joke. “So have a rad time. Remember: architecture and space. Bye.”

“Wait Lance, I-” Keith says, but the other boy is gone, already sprinting off down a path to get to his current class. He’s pretty quick, especially in comparison to his calm pace from only seconds before.  Keith slowly turns around, anxiety building in the back of his throat. Like a fucking raisin. 

A few more people fill the room now, legs lifted onto the desks or heads in folded arms. He ducks his head into his scarf, scurrying into the classroom as smoothly as he can manage with his knees turning to jelly. He’s never been more grateful for a bland room than in this moment, the lack of stimulus making his nervousness manageable. He sits down heavily in the seat Lance pointed out, pulling a sketchbook from his bag to rest his head on. He sits in a relative silence, only the faint sound of pencil on paper present in the room. 

The silence doesn’t last long enough. The door smashes against the wall, the entire ten people in the room jumping in surprise. Keith hears a quiet “oh shit, sorry” as a man walks into the room. He’s tall and broad shouldered, but carries himself like its all new to him, a child in an adult’s body. 

He has an undercut, the not-shaved tuft of his hair white and partially covered by a black beanie. He nervously adjusts the strap of his bag, pulling it over his head and resting it on the desk on the left side of the room to reveal a white shirt that says ‘dad’. 

Not even ‘World’s Best Dad’, ‘Dad of the Year’ or ‘Daddy’. Just dad. All lowercase. Two dots on the end like a lost afterthought. He opens his bag on the table, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper.

“What a turnout today,” he says, almost sarcastically but also kind of impressed.He rests one hand on his hip, looking at the paper. “So Kennedy, Martha and Sam are here.” 

A few grunts rise up from the tired group of people in the room, affirming their presence. It’s five in the evening and everyone wants to go home. 

“Marsha, Shristi, Alex and Nick are here,” he rambles off names, not even having to look up to know who is and isn’t present. People who were here the past two years judging by his familiarity with each name. He has to squint at the names at the bottom of the list, obviously foreign to him. 

“Lukas Sprouse?” 

A faint ‘here’ sounds from the back of the room. 

“E-Emine Yilmaz?” he pauses, looking up and scanning the room. “Did I say that right?”

A girl with dark brown hair at the front of the room nods. “Yeah, that’s right.” she replies, her voice soft but assured; confident. He smiles at her briefly before turning to the list again.

“Great,” he says, shifting his weight to the other leg. “Keith Kogane?” 

Keith starts, recognising his name. It’s like hearing a popular song on the radio, the kind that you don’t have any particular feelings for other than vague annoyance at its repetition. He raises his hand weakly in response to his name. 

“Uh, here?” he says. The man at the front looks up and nods. 

“Apparently there’s no order to this roll,” he grumbles, setting it down on the desk at the front of the room. He puts his hands on his hips and Keith notices that one arm fills out his jumper much less than the other. He can also see a jagged scar crossing the bridge of his nose, pink against his light skin. 

“Uh, so for those of you who are new,” he begins, shifting nervously under the tired eyes of college students. “I’m Shirogane Takashi, your tutor for the kind of boring stuff like perspective and linework and all that. You can just call me Shiro.” He leans on the desk. “For those of you who were here last year: hi again.” 

If it were possible, Keith sinks lower into the table, feeling the cool surface against his cheek after he sent his book to the end of his desk in surprise. The name bothers him. He knows it for sure, but all of the new information he’s  been given up until now makes it hard to recall. Images that are just too  far away to see, blurry in the distance. 

Shiro turns around and pulls down a projector screen, the whirring sound reminiscent of boring-ass lectures from his year of highschool.

“This is probably the last time you’ll be watching videos of other people draw in this class,” he says. “I’ve just gotten a new prosthetic and can’t do any drawing until my physical therapy is finished, but then, we suffer together.” He pulls a laptop out of his bag, typing something in for a few brief seconds. He has a permanent vacant smile when he isn’t speaking, like a reflex.“This is just a whole bunch of basics about three-d shapes that should already know. If not, come see me after and I’ll give you some material to look at.”

He stops typing for a moment, holding his hands together as if praying to the internet gods to make the page load faster.Or at all. Keith sees it then, the almost robotic looking hand emerging from his cardigan sleeve. The metal is a dark blue, almost purple where the light hits it. Shiro sighs in exasperation and his hands fall behind the computer screen. He looks up apologetically at the class. 

“So my computer just crashed,” he starts. “So if you want to wait for it to reboot and load, feel free. But if you want to just leave that’s also totally fine.” He looks around expectantly, waiting for the first person to get up and leave. 

It’s the person that Keith is pretty sure is Lukas Sprouse who stands up first, picking his bag up off the floor. He walks out the door without a word. Shiro watches him the entire way, smiling vacantly. 

“Lol, bye,” he says when the door shuts behind Lukas. He turns to look at the class, that smile becoming a little disconcerting now. “Anyone else?” He asks. 

A few more people get up, including Emine (who’s the only person Keith has a face to put to a name in the class) until there are five people left. Keith included. 

Shiro continues vacantly smiling at the people who leave until he’s certain no one else is going anywhere. His expression drops as he starts speaking. 

“So who wants to watch all of the sad cat diaries?” He asks, the projector screen lighting up. 

  


Everyone’s hands go up. 

  


“Ooh, a lot of single ladies in here.” He says. 

  


+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um, so can i just say a huge thank you to everyone who's been reading, commenting, bookmarking and leaving kudos on this fic??? it's such an honour to have such lovely feedback and i thank you all so much for fueling my self-indulgent klance. we hit 100 kudos recently, and i think that's absolutely amazing. so thank you again for all of your support.


	4. Glaucoma/Debian Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding? Bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, i made such a big fuss about updating without realising how much i had already written! thank you all for your continued patience and kind words, it really means a lot to me.  
> however, some of the things i said i would include (like samoan hunk) i couldn't fit without it being way too long. anyways, enjoy!

 

**glaucoma**

 

ɡlɔːˈkəʊmə/

 

  
_noun_

 

A condition of increased pressure within the eyeball, causing gradual loss of sight.

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

“I could not give less of a fuck about a ‘latissimus dorsi’ or whatever the hell it’s called. I draw faces _,_ Keith. _Faces_. Not the backs of overly toned men.”

They’re walking up the stairs to the apartment. Lance leads, talking up a storm of complaints about his most recent class. An ancient pair of sneakers tap up the stairs in time with the flurry of less than happy words falling from his mouth, most sentences starting with _fuck_ and all of them containing it.

Keith barely listens, letting Lance’s voice become background noise to his racing thoughts. An entire day of firsts, exhausting to the bone and a lot to sort out, make sense of.

Lance opens the door with a very not-gentle kick, grumbling about something else. Keith is almost certain he hears ‘fuck the patriarchy’ somewhere in his rant.

Keith is once again thrown off-guard by the art on the walls. They look more lifelike to him than real people do, the emotion captured on their faces pure and without inhibition. Lance’s mama stares at him in her chocolate and caramel browns, soft and kind but poised with a quiet defiance. Keith gives her the smallest dip of his head as he scurries into his room to put his bag away.

His walls are so blank in comparison to outside, the white cold and uninviting to him. Though right now, he’s grateful for a lack of eyes watching him; a break from strangers and strangeness. He flops face first into his bed, dreaming of swirls and shapes filling the emptiness around him.

 

 

+++

  
  


Five hours after dosing off on the couch in front of the TV, Lance wakes up in a cold sweat.

His lungs fill with air and expel it faster than his body can handle, images flying around in his head too quickly to grasp. Loose images in a sudden gust of wind.

The TV is still on, playing the fishing shows nobody is awake to watch with a half-muted (scottish?) accent filtering through the dark. The room is half lit by the screen, the glow changing with every cut of the camera.

He takes a deep breath, grounds himself.

_I’m Lance Mcclain. I’m Twenty three years old and I’m studying art in college._

_I have ten fingers and ten toes._

_I’m a person._

_And I’m okay._

_I’m okay._

 

He sighs, feeling the panic falling elsewhere, the voices on the TV grabbing his attention as the fear subsides.

_“A twenty-pound Grouper!”_

He sighs, picking up a remote wedged between two couch cushions and flicking to the news. The time stamp on the bottom of the screen tells him it’s 4:32 in the morning. Too late to bother trying to sleep again.

He stands up with a groan, joints cracking as he moves.

 

He’s glad he never remembers the dreams that wake him up in the early hours of morning. The sheer terror that he feels is more than enough for him; anything more would give him a heart attack. He walks over to the kitchen, flicking a lamp on the counter on with the accuracy of a person who’s done the same thing too many times. He fills up a kettle with water and turns the stove on with a lighter.

He would use the beaten up microwave, but Keith’s sleeping and Lance would rather not wake him up with the loud beeps. He rummages around the pantry looking for a packet of instant coffee. He can feel the grime coating the shelves where things aren’t covering it, making a note to clean it when he next has the chance. He finds the packet and sets it down on the counter, now going on  a search for a mug.

He hums to himself, old lullabies that he still sings to his nieces and nephews. Well, used to sing to his nieces and nephews. His low hums deepen into words, the water boiled and coffee being stirred to the sounds of his voice.

“ _Los pollitos dicen, pio pio pio,”_

He’s not a very good singer, never really has been. But the sounds are soothing in his lungs, a nicer pace than the beat being laid out by his heart.

_“Cuando tienen hambre, cuando tienen frio.”_

The words, the smell of cheap coffee; they drag him back to a house filled with light and screaming children. A woman with a child cradled in her arms  sings the song over a crying baby. Another woman shushes the rest of the children, who squeal and run away, leaving her exasperated in a never-ending game of hide and seek.

He smiles to himself at the memory, clutching the coffee in his hands as he sits down on the couch.

 _“_ _La gallina busca, el maíz y el trigo. Les dá la comida,y les presta abrigo.”_

 

The news is uninteresting, but he’s one of those people that’s uncomfortable without background noise. He pulls a basket from underneath the couch, overflowing with rolls of yarn and a half finished ugly sweater. Ironically ugly, of course.

He’s always been a fan of winter, grateful for the chance to put one of his few talents to use. He continues his current project; the result of many nights woken up by dreams he either can’t remember or memories he’d rather forget.

_“Bajo sus dos alas,acurrucaditos, duermen los pollitos, hasta el otro día.”_

His voice is nothing like the one that used to sing him to sleep every night, a story of chicks no longer the images of his dreams. He misses the nights his mother would sing to him, misses his mother in general. His brothers, his sisters; nieces and nephews. Even his abuelita, who always force-fed him _Purulin_ from the endless depths of her purse; but never before dinner. Maybe he should knit his mother a sweater. Show that he cares in a way Skype calls can’t. It would be like a permanent warm hug from a son living too far away from home to give a real one.

He puts the sweater away quickly before his homesickness can catch up with him, staving off the emotions with long gulps of hot coffee. It burns down his throat, giving him another thing to worry about.

 _You can have a breakdown tomorrow, it’s too early now_.

He takes in a shuddering breath, angrily switching to another channel. More news, the only thing semi-decent on TV at this time.

 

He spends the rest of the hours before dawn with a cup of shitty coffee and a news anchor named Jennifer, his past a lingering ghost around him. Wisps of smoke whispering his insecurities in his ears.

  


+++

  


Keith wakes up to the sound of a cat screeching outside.

He’s not at all amused, a mumbled curse word tumbling from his mouth as he opens his eyes, greeted by the feeling of paper covering his face and obscuring the majority of daylight coming through the window. He pulls it off with his right hand and clears his eyes with his left to read what’s on the paper.

He makes out blocks of text, laid out in a table on the paper. As the bleariness of waking fades, he recognises his name, a mash of numbers and days printed at the top.

He sits up, pulling the paper from his face and giving it a better look. Maybe he needs to look into getting glasses.

 

A timetable, printed out in neat columns. Complete with room numbers and teacher names as well as colour coded. He stares at it in confusion, getting to his feet.

He pulls a shirt over his head and shoulders his way through the door, finding himself immediately greeted by the smell of coffee.

 

“Morning sleeping beauty,” he hears from the direction of the couch. He turns, rubbing heavy sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. Lance looks up at him over the rim of a coffee cup, the light from the TV reflecting off of his eyes.

Blue, a sea ravaged by storms.

He sets the cup down and Keith notices dark circles under his eyes, a swollen purple as though he’d been punched. A healing bruise beneath his eyelids.

“Morning,” Keith replies, moving to sit on the couch beside Lance in a bleary daydream. He feels dizzy and far away, but lucid enough to move.

“I made you coffee by the way,” Lance says, not looking at him. Something in his voice is different, not as energetic. Less _Lance_. “That cup is yours, it’s the only one that isn’t chipped.” Keith looks at the mug on the low table. He looks over at Lance again who still won’t catch his eye.

“Thanks,” he says, lifting the cup from the table. He takes a tentative sip, grimacing a little at the bitter sting of it. He covers it with a smile, seeing the awkwardness of it reflected in the cup.. “How long have you been awake for?” He asks, tucking his feet beneath him to sit cross-legged.

He likes to take up as little space as possible, be as insignificant and unburdening as he possibly can. Lance on the other hand, spreads his arms and legs out as much as he can, drawing attention straight to him.

 

Lance sighs, resting his mug his lap, loosely cupped between his fingers. He mimics Keith’s position, curlingin on himself. “Awhile now,” he replies, watching the flashing on TV. Reports on a fire in an old pizza place, suspected arson. He’s looking at the screen, but it’s not getting to him. There’s a wall in front of him and everything glances off of it. The news,the time of day, Keith’s voice…

“But whatever, means I can get some stuff done.” Lance adds, shrugging nonchalantly.

Keith gives  him a once-over. He decides to drop it for now, come back to the conversation some other time. Sometime when his eyes are working better and his brain isn’t heavy with fog.

He turns to the TV himself and soaks up the awkward silence.

“So uh-” he starts. Pauses, clears his throat. “What do you have first?”

“Design,” he replies. For the first time he meets Keith’s eyes, tilting his head to the side. “You?” he asks. He seems very small the way he’s sitting; slouched and protective.”I printed your timetable for you by the way.”

Keith’s eyes widen. “ _Oh,”_ He thinks of the paper, scrunched up at his side. “That’s where that came from.”

Lance smiles, eyes flickering away from Keith’s again. But the storms in his eyes have cleared a little, small flecks of sunlight peering through a layer of grey clouds. Keith unfurls his timetable, easing out the crinkles he made in it over his thigh.

“Pottery?” he raises an eyebrow. “I don’t… remember picking pottery?”

“Well you did just wake up,” Lance retorts.

Keith shakes his head, a small smirk over his lips. “True.” he replies. He looks into the coffee cup, seeing his reflection in the dark brown of it.

His hair is a mess, scattered around him like a lopsided halo. His skin is stained with the indents of his sheets and his shirt has a huge stain down the front. He sighs and drains the coffee in a single gulp, turning to Lance quickly.

Lance looks back at him, deer in the headlights.

“Where’s the shower?” Keith asks.

 

+++

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand contemporary art though,”

 

It’s five in the evening and the sun is dipping below the horizon, staining the sky with oranges and red to put Leonid Afremov to shame. He watches the colours, a background track to the idle rambling of Lance.

“What do you mean?” Keith presses, watching the clouds morph slowly.

“I just think that a lot of it is stupid,” Lance replies, flailing his hands. He tends to do that when he gets passionate about something. The more hand gestures, the more he cares. “The fact that we’re so driven by the need to find meaning in everything, or that we can and will find meaning.” He starts. Sometimes Keith is taken aback by just how clever Lance is. His understanding of things, his knowledge; it always catches Keith off guard. “I could paint a black line on a white piece of paper and old dude with an orange moustache would come along and say it was about racial profiling or some shit.” Lance continues.

Keith laughs a little, the image springing to life in his head, a snooty rich person leaning over a blank canvas as if deep in thought.

“So then what should art be?” Keith asks. He puts his hands in his jean pockets, avoiding the nipping of frost on his fingertips.

He can smell spring in the air. A mixture of cut grass and that honey-like scent of steam. Warm as the orange hue of the sky.

“Whatever the fuck it wants.” Lance replies. He waits for Keith to respond, but his head is in the clouds. On a ship in a sea of stars, crimson winds filling his sails and carrying him far away…

 

“What’s the sky look like today, Keith?”

He snaps back to reality, frightened by the sound of his own name and caught off-guard by the whimsical tone of Lance’s voice. There’s yearning in there, a sort of wanting in his voice.

Keith thinks for a moment and Lance lets him, the silence between them warm and comforting.

Most people don’t let Keith think. He’s always dragged into another conversation, pulled with arms flailing from the train of thought he had and into another one.

“Have you ever been caught in the rain on a really cold day?” Keith asks, at last finding the words. Lance nods.

“Well it’s like that feeling you get when you go home and take a shower after that. It’s the colour of that kind of warm. Like being hugged, or waking up in a warm bed…” He trails off, thinking about it. Deciding not to say what he wanted to next.

(waking up in a warm bed)

He gives Lance the slightest smile.

(with someone beside you)

And Lance whistles under his breath, calling Keith a poet again.

(being dragged out of sleep by light kisses)

Keith laughs and hopes it doesn’t sound as hollow as it feels in his chest.

(finally getting up and being dragged right back down again)

 

They walk the rest of the way home in silence.

 

+++

 

_Dark._

 

_There’s a sound coming from his right, raised high in a fluctuating pattern. The tone and pitch differ. Lilac and brown, he can see the sound take shape._

_“Hey hermano.”_

_Female, upbeat. He turns, slowly, his head feels welded in place with something sticky. Like honey. He raises a hand to feel it, gets nothing._

_He looks at her, dark skin and eyes, a lilac dress. She has gaps where her front teeth should be._

_“Sabes a donde vamos?”_ Do you know where we’re going?

_He tries to shake his head, but it’s stuck. He can only stare at her as she smiles, mouth unmoving despite sound pouring out. He clenches and unclenches his fists. He can barely see._

_“Nos vamos a morir,”_ We’re going to die.

 

_He hears screeching, sees her falling away from him. She smiles with her teeth but screams with her eyes and her voice. The lilac fades, turns crimson as he tries to reach out for her.  Then the pain._

_So heavy it knocks him back, a crushing weight on the back of his head like he’s being torn apart._

_The crimson is gone._

 

_And it’s dark._

 

+++

 

He wakes up to the sound of screaming.

 

It’s quick. Not even a moment of wiping the sleep from his eyelids.

He’s up in a beat, a pocket knife pulled and held out defensively, blade glinting in the moonlight.

He’s a heavy sleeper, sure. But screams filled with fear, real fear; are his kind of alarm. He almost breaks his pinky toe on the door frame as he tumbles out of his room like a drunken maniac with a knife. He hears the scream again, not particularly loud, but _afraid_. More afraid than he’s heard anyone in a long time.

He runs his right hand along the wall to find his way through the dark hallway. He has the place memorised through touch and sight after the week he’s lived here, though Lance has a habit of moving things around.

He can hear a voice now, feather light in the dark and heavy on the speaker’s throat.

“ _Tio, por favor,”_

Keith recognises it immediately, despite the way it’s choked with tears; filled with fear.

 _“No lo hagas,”_ it says. “ _Por favor.”_

Keith puts the knife behind his back, still not comfortable with putting it away, but knowing that walking in on Lance with it would probably be unwise.

He opens the door with his free hand, grateful for the lack of sound it makes.

“Lance?” he calls into the dark. He hopes it sounds gentle. Sneaking up in his bedroom like this is weird to say in the least, but so is screaming.

“ _Monika?”_ Keith pauses.

“Uh, no?” he says. “It’s me, Keith. Your buddy?”

He catches a sound, but it’s not speaking.

A sob.

Lance is crying.

 

Keith stands paralysed for a moment, unsure of what to do. Lance doesn’t seem aware of what’s happening, probably won’t remember it in the morning; barely lucid.  But Keith can’t leave him as he is, trembling with the names of ghosts on his tongue. He sighs, folding his pocket knife back into an innocent red blob and setting on the bedside table.

He’s done this before, sometime.

 

His eyes have adjusted and he can make out the outline of the single bed with Lance seated upright, arms wrapped around himself.

Keith scooches himself onto the bed, holding out his arms tentatively.

_This is a bad idea._

He thinks as he wraps his arms gently around the quaking body of his roommate, feeling his clammy skin on his own; loose hair between his fingers.

“Shh,” he whispers, quiet and as gentle as he can manage. “I’m here.”

_This is a bad idea._

His body shakes and his ribcage heaves with a burden Keith doesn’t know, a weight heavy as the tears on his cheeks, something that will change him some days. And Keith holds him through it, whispering quietly until the sobs turn into sniffles and the sniffles into light snores.

“I’m here,” he says.

_This is a bad idea._

“I’m right here.”

 

+++

 

Lance wakes up alone with a blanket he doesn't recognise over his shoulders. He doesn't move at first, it’s Saturday and he can sleep for as long as he likes. He finds comfort in the softness of his bed, the heady smell of the blanket…

 

… While Keith does his research.

He starts at “night screaming” and slowly works his way to “PTSD” and “Night Terrors”.

He’s exhausted, too haunted by the image of Lance breaking down in front of him over something invisible keeping him wide awake.

 

They sit on opposite sides of the small apartment, separated by the coloured walls between them.

 


	5. Retinopathy / Absolute Zero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith turns to Shiro and art to get Lance to open up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow! i think this is the longest chapter yet!  
> thank you for sticking with me until now. i've started to dedicate more time to writing recently, but i still make no promises about updates (last two years of school are rough). so i really do appreciate your continued patience and interest in this fic. if you have anything you want to say, you can hmu at tea-pun.tumblr.com or drop me a comment.  
> we have shiro in this chapter, back by popular demand, and also the most angst i have written in my entire life.  
> enjoy!

** retinopathy **

ˌrɛtɪˈnɒpəθi/

_noun_

Disease of the retina which results in impairment or loss of vision.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Lance didn’t talk about it. 

 

He hadn’t for a long time, not wanting to burden himself with the memories of those weeks; that moment, more so than burdening anyone else. He liked to deny that it even happened, but the nightmares rarely stopped and the echoes of his past often came to haunt him in quiet moments and his skin still told the tragic story every time he took his shirt off. 

 

And Keith, Keith didn’t want to ask. 

 

He wanted to help, but at the same time, he was nervous about even mentioning the sleepless nights he and Lance shared. The way he found himself holding Lance more often than he ever had anyone, the way that he started being able to notice the signs of an incoming bout of night terrors or the building of a wall in front of him, making his blue eyes glaze over with cold frost. 

 

Keith started calling it the Winter, for lack of creativity when it came to words (despite Lance constantly calling him a poet). He was afraid to leave him alone when the Winter set in, scared that a blizzard would seal his doors shut in the hours he was gone, the walls too icy for him to touch, too opaque for him to see through to the Lance he knew was on the other side. 

He had nowhere else to go, really. 

 

The class ended with the subdued sound of papers being shoved into bags, feet scraping across the ground and yawns spreading from tired eyes to weary faces. He puts his things away slower, casting glances to the rest of the kids leaving in an attempt to seem as normal as possible. He walks up as if to go to the door, then stops, as if forgetting something. 

He turns around to Shiro’s back, his head facing the computer screen displaying… cat memes? Keith rolls his eyes, suddenly rethinking his decision to come to  _ this  _ guy for advice. Maybe Allura would be a better choice… 

He’s cut off from his thoughts by Shiro’s sudden awareness of his presence, his legs being used to turn his chair around slowly, tiredly. He looks at him for a moment, weariness written all over his features and slowing his brain to a snail’s pace. 

He brightens in slow motion, shaking off the vacant smile on his face and replacing it with a more sincere one for his audience of just Keith. But the tired stays, licking like flames in the backs of his eyes. Blue instead of red, with the pace of dying embers. 

“Oh, hi Keith,” he says, not making any motion to hide his google search of literally just ‘lolcats’ behind him. A huge picture of a grey cat with a droopy face, the words “i haz a sad” written over it in white lettering. 

Keith doesn’t respond for a moment, processing the atrocity of the thing on Shiro’s screen with a disgusted look on his face. Shiro waves a hand in front of his face. 

“Earth to Keith,” he grins when Keith’s attention shifts to his face. “There he is! What’s up? Did you want to talk about something?” 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Keith responds, his eyes looking anywhere but the dark eyes of Shiro. He’s never been so good at looking people in the eyes, but after knowing someone for long enough, he can manage pretty well. But something about Shiro’s eyes, similar to charcoal in colour, makes him feel very nervous. Not for himself, not at all. This meme-loving fuck would never do anything to hurt him, ever. It was more a fear for Shiro, for what he had seen, that made those tired embers sparkling blue flames. 

It made asking this so much harder. 

“It actually a little, uh… personal,” Keith shifts nervously, chewing on the side of his mouth to keep himself on the surface of the planet and not skyrocketing to the next system. He looks around quickly. “Can I, sit down?” 

Shiro’s smile turns to a frown. Not sad or upset, but confused and a little concerned. Keith pulls up a chair in front of Shiro from the first row (Emine’s seat). He sits down, crossing his legs beneath him, now picking at his cuticles. Shiro looks at him, expectant concern written all over his face. Like a mother, he would guess. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Shiro asks, letting himself relax a little more into his chair, trying to make Keith feel more comfortable and welcome. 

Keith looks back at him, formulating his response while going over the details of him. 

A new shirt, black v-neck with the words “Comet Me Bro” written with block white letters (honestly, where do these shirts come from?). He’s wearing a brown leather bomber jacket, with the NASA logo stitched into the shoulder. Usual jeans, cuffed towards the end, and the generic adidas sneakers. 

The fact that this guy is an adult still confuses Keith, and the thought of what he’s been through doesn’t seem to line up. He catches the cold glint of metal out of the corner of his eye, the robotic hand of his prosthetic. Keith takes in a deep breath, the words planned out after his pause. 

“My roommate is… not doing so well,” he starts, Shiro looking a little caught off guard by his sudden speech. “He’s been through something, I have no idea what. But it wakes him up at night screaming, makes him… colder in the morning.” He pauses, trying to judge Shiro’s reaction. Nothing. 

The person he had been moments before, joking and wearing a t-shirt with a horrible space pun on it is put on hold. A soldier sits across from him now, and he knows all too well where this conversation is going, but his face doesn’t show a thing. 

“He won’t talk to me about it at all and I… don’t want to bring it up,” Keith continues, voice faltering at the sudden shift in Shiro. “But I know that keeping it all in like that isn’t good and I want to help. But I have no idea where to start or what to do.” He looks down at the palms of his hands, feeling a sting on his forefinger, telling him he picked a little too far. “I just want to help.” He says after a few beats of silence. He looks Shiro in the eyes at that, hopes that the desperation he feels shows through, that his sincerity brings the Shiro he knows to help. 

He watches the orange flames go back to blue, the steely iron of his eyes fading to charcoal. The tension in his shoulders fade and he runs a hand to the white in his hair, pushing it from his face in thought, looking to the ceiling instead of Keith. More silence. Keith feels his nerves cracking to life beneath his muscles, feeling the fear that he had overstepped some line, anxiety prickling at the back of his neck… 

“Let him know you’re there for him,” Shiro says softly, gently as if not to disturb something. “Listen to the little things he says, the hints. Pick up on them. Tell him something about yourself, because the more you share with him, the more he’ll feel safe sharing with you.”

Shiro fiddles with the connection between the remaining organic part of his arm and the place where it melds into metal and plastic, the ghost of pain that never seems to leave him. 

“It’s going to be hard for him, for you too probably,” Shiro continues. He sounds far away,, but the smile he gives Keith is very real and very present. “But he’s lucky to have someone like you looking out for him. It’ll take time, and you’ll get angry sometimes, so will he. If things get too hard, just remember this: patience yields focus.”

 

+++

 

Being alone is strange for Lance. 

It was such a rarity for a long time in his life; always a sibling, parent, aunt, uncle or grandparent close by. Even if some miracle or serious disaster occurred and his family left him home, he would be stuck with the cat or immediately call a friend. 

When he graduated, he moved in with his best friend Hunk who happened to live close to his campus. 

Alone time was a luxury rarely afforded, and when it came he used it as best he could. Watching shows, experimenting in the kitchen, sobbing uncontrollably, etc. 

Then Hunk moved out, gaining a placement as an apprentice to a world-renowned engineer. Lance was happy for him, of course, but being alone slowly became something he feared. As days went on, he would purposely keep himself outside, busy, while surrounded by hordes of people. 

 

And then Keith came along. 

It had almost been a month since they’d met and moved in together. They saw each other almost all the time. Only two of their subjects were at different times, the rest lined up perfectly with one another. Alone time became something rare for Lance again. The only things in the two boy’s lives that didn’t match up were their sleeping schedules and the occasional lecture. Lance started to crave time on his own more than ever, the same way he had before he moved out. He needed it when his feelings were bubbling too close  to the surface, threatening to burst out in a tirade of screams and sobs. 

He found himself holding his breath when Keith was around, treading carefully so he didn’t break and spill everything in front of him, holding on desperately for the chance to be alone. 

 

But then, at the same time, he couldn’t imagine moments without Keith around. 

He was a nervous presence that he had grown so accustomed to. He was used to him walking up and down the apartment with cans of paint carried in his arms, tapping his fingers on the counter while waiting for the kettle to boil, sitting cross-legged in front of the television and the occasional outburst of (korean?) curse words.. He had become a part of Lance’s life that he had already started taking for granted, like the paintings on his wall, or the kettle he bought three years ago. 

He was always  _ there,  _ just being himself and sharing small pieces of who he was with him. 

It was a welcome change, a joy during his good days and a comforting person to have near him on his bad ones. 

 

For Keith, it was a similar story. 

He was no stranger to being alone, often it was welcome. But he found more comfort in Lance’s presence than he could ever have imagined. He was an anchor when things got too much, something to hold onto when the sounds, sights and smells filled him to the brim. He would take him away when an artsy movie made his head spin with flashing lights during a lecture, let him grip his forearm tightly and guide him through a crowd when the noises could no longer be contained in his head, forcing him to close his eyes and walk blind through the campus; and generally provided something solid in his life. There were no words to express how grateful he was for that and language failed in articulating just how  _ comfortable  _ he felt with Lance. How happy he felt around him. 

 

And yet. 

There was still so much he didn’t know, so much he didn’t understand about Lance’s history, who he was and how he came to be that. Keith was afraid he would never get anywhere with him, felt so helpless at times. Like in the moments where holding him did nothing and he screamed until the sun came up, or when the winter blew in and there was nothing he could do to thaw him from the ice around him. 

 

The memories make him shudder, and Lance looks up at him, interest being dragged from Wipeout on the TV. 

“You alright?” He asks from his place beneath Keith, his thin frame sprawled out on the floor. 

Keith shifts his position on the couch, flipping himself the opposite way and curling himself into a fetal position. 

“Yeah,” he replies, looking Lance in the eyes. 

They’re so  _ blue _ .

Deeper than usual, darker with a sort of heaviness Keith is not used to seeing on him, but recognises from the glint in Shiro’s; the tired blue flames. 

Lance gives him a small smile, sincere but subtle, and turns back to the TV. They sit in silence and Keith feels a sense of anticipation building in the air. Ice cold and heavy as an avalanche. Lance is the first to break the silence, and his voice sounds a little desperate; a dam on the verge of breaking. 

“Hey Keith,” he starts, tentatively. Keith gives him a slight ‘hm?’ in response, hoping it doesn’t sound as on-edge as he feels. 

“How would you feel if I just,” he pauses, contemplative. “I dunno, like, died one day?” 

Keith freezes. 

( _ What?) _

Not what he was expecting, not at all. 

_ Say something comforting. Say something nice. Tell him what he means to you. Ask him to go get some help. Say  _ something  _ goddamn it- _

“Lance I-” He chokes on his words, gags at the thought of Lance  _ not being alive anymore.  _ It freaks him out, to the point of almost-tears, his eyes turning glassy. He answers the only way he can. 

Angrily. 

“Lance, what the actual  _ fuck _ ,” He can feel the fire rising in his voice, drowning out images that he  _ does not want to see _ . 

Colours swirl in his mind’s eye, images of warping gravestones with shifting names and the grinning teeth of skulls. Purples and blues, blacks and yellows. “Why would you say something like that?” 

Lance shrugs, obviously second-guessing asking this question. 

“Just a question,” he murmurs. And he sounds tired. Very very tired. 

But Keith barely sees him now. He’s a smear of blue and brown in his vision, acrylic stained over a canvas of grey and white. Uncertain brushstrokes that mumble words in his ears. Soft but so  _ loud.  _

_ imsorryforyourlossmydeepestsympathiestheywillbemissedareyouokay?aroeyoauokkay?Keith?issomethingwrongg? _

_ Keath?keiuth?? _

_ AREYOUOKAY?  _

 

+++

 

They don’t speak for the next day. 

 

Lance feels like he fucked up. 

Keith feels like he should’ve done more, should’ve said something very different. 

SHouldn’t have freaked out like he did. 

 

Nobody holds Lance that night, not even when his screams rip through the painted walls of the apartment. Rattling the paint on the walls and tearing through the streets like a ripping canvas. 

Nobody holds Keith’s hand to stop him from biting into it again and again, no one gives him gum to chew instead of the inside of his cheek. 

Keith bleeds crimson, metallic in his mouth. Lance bleeds lilac through the tear ducts in his eyes. 

 

+++

 

He was expelled for vandalism, given a firm talking-to from the cops. 

Out of spite, he took art classes instead of going to school again. And also because no school would take him after what he did, it was that bad. He took up a job as a pizza delivery boy, picking up money to pay for his college tuition. He was lucky that he was still the government’s ‘problem’, a kid who had to be taken care of and therefore did not have to pay rent. It was good for him, in a way. It gave him freedom and flexibility while at the same time, chained him down to places he did not want to be trapped in.

It took Keith years to be eligible for college and to save up enough money.  But in the end, it brought him to where he was now. 

 

And he wanted to be here.

But sometimes he didn't know how to.

 

+++

 

Keith woke up earlier than he had for years. 

It was a Saturday, he didn’t even have classes. But he needed to start early, before Lance woke up. 

 

His walls were heavy with granite pencil lines, scrawled into the walls, painted over with white, erased and redrawn over and over and over again.

Because he can’t get it right, he can  _ never  _ get it right. 

But today. 

Today he was going to do not just get it right, but make it perfect. 

 

+++

 

Lance doesn’t wake up so much as he gets out of bed. 

 

His sleep was nightmare-ridden and short as hell. He only got up because he wanted to apologise.  _ Needed  _ to apologise. And the ghosts of his past were becoming way too loud. He walks past Keith’s room, where the door is shut tightly. Probably asleep. He sighs with relief, not ready to confront his roommate until he’s had some coffee and his eyes have adjusted to the bright light from outside. 

He shuffles into the kitchen, eyes set straight ahead and locked onto the kettle. 

The God-send, his only reason for living. He’s affectionately named it Lance Jr, a name so good even Keith begrudgingly calls it that. He presses the button, stumbling around the kitchen in lion-themed slippers, a loose t-shirt, baggy pants and a blue robe over his shoulders. 

Milk, sugar, an instant coffee packet and a mug. A recipe for one hell of an apology. 

He turns around, leaning on the kitchen counter as he waits, facing the living room. 

“You really fucked up Lance,” 

He looks away from the couch slowly, eyes fixing on the figure of his nightmares. Literally. 

“Thanks Monika,” he replies, his voice snappy and upset-sounding. He has a right to be. “I really appreciate the observation.” 

She looks at him, head tilted to the side. A fake pout on her lips. He wants to run away from her, but he knows all too well that she’ll follow him wherever he goes.

She always does. 

“That’s no way to talk to your  _ hermana,  _ is it Lance?” She murmurs. It’s more of a statement than a question, the only hint otherwise is the way her voice goes up at the end. “So what’re you going to do about it then? Are you going to fix it?” 

Lance looks away, down at his calloused hands. Ragged from years of use, freckled from the hot Cuban sun.  Anywhere but her eyes, a dark ocean abyss that startles him so much more than it should. Looking into your sister’s eyes should  _ not  _ scare you, he knows that. But the adrenaline in his veins does not. 

“Lance?”

He looks at her. His knees go weak at just how depthless her eyes are, how there are still gaps in her smile from where she lost her teeth. 

She doesn’t look like that anymore, but this Monika, the one of his nightmares, still does. He stares her down, holds his ground against her. 

“I’m going to apologise,” he says, firmly. Louder than he expects, the sound of his voice echoing back to him. “And you’re not going to stop me.” 

Monika gives a last toothless grin before she fades into the air around him, crawling back into his head to be nothing more than a whisper of a voice, a fraudulent version of who she really is. 

He sighs, turning back around to make his coffee. 

 

Keith stands there, looking at him with an unreadable expression. There are too many emotions there, so much in his eyes and his shaking hands. 

He’s wearing an old t-shirt, far too big for him, and a pair of boxer shorts. His hair is tied back, pulled off of his face in a loose bun on top of his head. Smears of something cover his face, his hands and his clothes. Lance can only guess it’s paint. 

He’s shaking like a leaf, almost as if he’s ready to bolt at any time. But he stands his ground, fire in his eyes, heavily bandaged hands clasped at his chest as though in prayer. 

Lance doesn’t have a chance to say anything, to even formulate something close to a sound before Keith is speaking. 

“I need to show you something,” he mumbles, fast and slurred like a drunk man too caught up in his head to form proper words. But his statement couldn’t be clearer despite it. “It’s in my room.” 

He spins on his heel so quickly it almost gives Lance vertigo. He stands there, shocked and windswept by Hurricane Keith. 

_ ‘Smooth’  _ says the voice in his head. He tells her to shut the fuck up. 

 

+++

 

_ The hospital waiting room smelled like antiseptic, a poor coverup for the desperation, the bad news that hung heavy in the air.  _

_ “It’s not good”  _

_ Sobbing, coming from somewhere farther away. In another room, if there were one.  _

_ “Major damage to the retina”  _

_ He can’t see anything, but he knows exactly what this place looks like. The hospital bed with its sterile white sheets, it’s rock-solid pillows; the beeping machinery around him and the worn blue chair his mother sat next to him and sobbed in when she thought he was asleep.  _

_ But worse, worse was the room two doors down. A bed with rushing nurses and the sound of a defibrillator.  _

_ Beep.  _

Clear. 

_ Beep.  _

Clear. 

_ Beep… _

 

+++

  
  


Keith sits on his bed, swinging his legs back and forth. 

 

He can feel the paint on his face, cracking now that it’s dry. A cool orange like sand dunes at night, when the sun sets behind them and makes them glow. It’s in contrast with all of his features; his pale skin, his dark eyes and almost black hair. 

Maybe he spoke too fast and Lance didn’t understand a word he said. Maybe he was so angry at him that he didn’t want to understand. 

_ Should’ve done better.  _

_ Should’ve asked _

_ Should’ve spoken _

_ Should’ve been better _

_ Shou- _

 

A small knock on his door snaps him out of his thoughts. A spinning tirade of emotions fills him, so strong that it squeezes his lungs. He finds it hard to breath, but does it anyways. A gulp, stuck in his throat, and he’s strangling out a: “come in” before he can second-guess himself. Before he can decide this is a bad idea. 

 

The majority of them are. 

 

+++

 

He steps into a room he has never seen before. 

 

It looks familiar, almost like the plain room that Hunk used to sleep him. Almost like the room he cried in when he was gone, sprawled on the empty wooden floor. 

 

This room is not empty. 

It’s full of more than his brain can handle, a spinning wheel of shades. Greys and blacks he didn’t know existed, feelings he didn’t know he could still possess wracking his body with every passing second. 

“What is this?” Lance asks, in awe. His eyes are blown wide to take as much of it in as possible. He twirls around, spinning in place like a ballerina. Keith watches him, getting so tangled up in his slow turns that he almost forgets why they’re both in here in the first place. That is, until Lance looks him dead in the eyes. 

 

They’re so goddamn  _ blue.  _

 

And they’re looking right at him. He takes a breath, but doesn’t shift his gaze. 

“This,” he says, gesturing around the room with his hand, showing Lance the mural he’s already seen. “Is me.” 

Lance’s look of wonder changes to one of confusion. Eyebrows raising, the corners of his lips turning downward in a frown. 

“What do yo-” He stops as Keith stands up and approaches him slowly. He’s not looking at his eyes anymore, feeling his self consciousness slipping into the back of his ears, heating up his cheeks. 

“I uh,” he pauses to think. And Lance lets him, as he has since the day they met. “I’m not so good with words, I can never get them to sound right. But my art, I’ve always been able to say what I want to with that.” He looks around the room at the story of himself. An autobiography of colour and texture, cans of paint littering the floor. 

There isn’t a beginning, so he starts where he stands, looking up at the ceiling and pointing. 

Characters spiral around the light dangling from the ceiling, looking like a paper spiral dragged down by the fixture. He’s written all the names that he can in those characters, all of the people that he has known and cared for in his life. He makes sure his mother and father are together, as they would have liked. 

“Those are names,” he says to Lance, who looks up. He lets out an audible gasp, absolutely amazed. “My parents’ names are up there. The names of the foster families I remember well enough to write, the places I’ve lived, the schools I’ve been to and the few friends I’ve made.” He stops, side-eyeing Lance. But he’s too caught up in the characters to notice. 

“One of those is your name,” he murmurs. He’s so quiet, that a gust of wind could have taken the words away and Lance would never have heard them. But God was on his side. 

He looks at Keith with those big blue eyes of his, sapphire and forget-me-not. Iridescent. 

“Keith I-” 

He doesn’t let him finish, instead walks over to the bottom corner of the doorframe. He crouches down and waves Lance over to join him. Lance obeys without a word, crouching next to Keith. 

 

It’s an engraving, carved expertly into the plaster and filled in with paint. 

The sun and the moon, entwined as if the same entity, floating over a pool of water. From afar, it looks like a jumble of textures and shapes, but up close it’s a story. Intricately whispering the story of the sun and the moon. Their hands dip into the water, but they have no eyes for the beauty reflected there, only for each other. 

The moon’s hair is long and dark, etched deep into the plaster and filled in with dark paint. She’s soft, but strong, a force to be reckoned with, a source of ethereal strength. 

The sun is bright and he smiles like it’s all he knows. His brightness is rivalled only by his reflection in her eyes, and they stare at each other, lovestruck. 

Characters are engraved into their arms and on the side of their necks, words that Lance cannot read. He turns to Keith for an explanation, but Keith is too deep in thought. When he speaks, it’s not to him. 

“My parents,” he mumbles quietly, wistful. “They say that the moon and the sun love each other so much that they die every day so that the other can shine.” He runs his fingers, heavy with bandaids and dried paint, over their figures. Then as quickly as he fell into the memories, he draws himself out. He stands up quickly and walks over to a row of houses.

But they’re heavy with age, dilapidated and uncared for. Plants roam freely over the windows and bricks, crawling up the white picket fences and breaking free from the confines of pots. They’re almost photo realistic, the detail is so heavy that it’s hard to tell if it’s an image or a painting. They all have numbers floating above them, shakily, as if the thought of them made Keith’s hand tremble. 

“Every house I’ve been fostered in,” he says, still refusing to look Lance in the eye. Expression unreadable, once again. “In order of one to forty-three.” 

“Forty three?” 

Keith nods but doesn’t respond with anything more. 

He moves over to the opposite wall, a painting of the Earth covers most of it, trapped within an ellipse. Other planets circle it across the wall, each in different places. Keith even went to far as to add the constellations around the map of the Earth, each labelled in tiny white script. Dots of two different shades cover the map, lines between countries covered by them in some places. Blurred. 

“The r-” he stops himself, remembering. “The lighter ones are places I’ve been. The darker ones are places I want to go.” Lance looks again. 

Almost the whole map is covered. More dark dots than light ones. 

He also notices some dots on the planets painted far away from Earth, distances written between each ellipse in light years. 

There are other things on the walls that Keith doesn’t talk about. Tombstones jutting out of the floorboards and onto the walls, that twist like Dali’s melting clocks. The empty boxes that look so real, shadows and deep sea creatures pouring out of them and onto the original whiteness of the walls. Shadowy beings with horns, tails, halos and everything in between which fill up the empty spaces between the artworks. Characters spill from their appendages, speaking in a tongue Lance can’t understand. 

Every time Keith’s eyes wander to them, he gives Lance an apologetic look. A mouthed ‘some other time’ on his lips. Lance wants to know, wants to hear the stories about a Kaith he doesn’t know. But he understands. 

 

The wall by the headboard of his bed is the killer. 

It catches Lance a little off-guard. He stumbles, stops right before bumping into Keith. 

Hands reach out towards the centre, a mixture of shades and tones, shapes and sizes arranged in disarray. Each stroke looks deliberate and each hand carries words on their fingers. Their nails. The backs of their hands. Their palms. 

Some are only decorate with patterns and others hold nothing at all. 

A figure stands in the middle, faceless and freeform, but still defiant. The hands surround it, but don’t smother it. Keith walks up to it, his fingertips feather light over one of the hands. 

He turns around to Lance. Meets his eyes again. 

And he smiles. 

 

The corners of his eyes crinkle, his face folds into a smile and  _ oh lord _ he has dimples in his cheeks. 

He taps the hand with a finger. 

“This one’s you,” he almost whispers. Lance draws in a breath quickly, surprised. He looks down at his hand, shaking due to the coffee and the shock, but so similar to the painted one on the wall. Even the freckles are placed correctly, the little scare at the base of his tumb.

And words. So many words. 

“What are these?” he asks, trailing his fingers down a spiral of letters that wrap around his fingers like yarn. Keith ducks his head to hide the blush that spreads to his cheeks. 

“Things you’ve said,” he replies. “Not everything, but, the stuff that stuck with me.” Lance continues to stare in awe. 

He turns around, looking at the room again. He stares in silence until Keith clears his throat, pulling Lance’s attention back to him. 

“I’m sorry about freaking out last night,” he says, staring at his bare feet. “I just… remembered some things. Because, well, you’re a person I care about Lance, and I can’t imagine someone I care about getting hurt. It’s happened before, and I don’t know if I could handle it happening again.” He looks up then. “I thought maybe, by showing you what you meant to me, how you fit into my life,” he gestures to the painted walls of the room. “I thought maybe you’d understand.” 

When Lance doesn’t respond, Keith’s posture sinks. He crosses his arms defensively, curling in on himself. “But I get it if you don’t want to hang around my crazy anymore,” he adds. “I can leave if you want me t-”

He’s cut off by Lance’s arms grabbing by the shoulders. He uncrosses his arms in surprise, finding himself dragged into the tightest, warmest hug he’s ever had.

 

He’s held Lance countless times while he screams the night away. His arms wrapped around his waist or shoulders to make him feel safe, to fight off the ghosts in his mind that haunt him. He’s felt their skin pressed together, the tensing of muscles in Lance’s shoulders when a wave of something terrifying hits him. He has hugged Lance before. 

 

This, though. This is different. 

 

It’s a hug that they both didn’t know they needed until they were there, standing at the foot of Keith’s bed. They stand there for awhile, until they both feel forgiven; worthy. 

Lance pulls away first and cold air rushes to fill the space between them. 

 

“Monika,” he says, swallowing back the lump in his throat. “I have an older sister named Monika.” 

 

+++

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://cdn.meme.am/cache/instances/folder204/500x/67545204.jpg  
> above is the cat meme shiro was looking at. don't say that i don't deliver.


	6. Amblyopia / Persian Plum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of hugging because God knows they both need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um, can i just say a huge thank you to you all? you have all been so darn lovely to me and have really motivated me to keep writing. i'm just so ecstatic by the feedback that i've received for this fic (we hit 200 kudos! omg!) and also,,, there's art?!   
> look, look at this wonderful creation. http://imp-a-dorkis.tumblr.com/post/157120855662/so-i-did-fanart-of-this-great-fanfic-called-every . please, it's so lovely. i cry every time i see it.   
> if you have anything you want to ask me, i'm at tea-pun.tumblr.com and i have a tag which is #fic:ecys   
> love you all, and hope you enjoy!

amblyopia

ˌamblɪˈəʊpɪə/

  
_noun_

 

 Impaired or dim vision without obvious defect or change in the eye.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

He doesn’t tell Keith everything, and what he does say, he keeps brief and hushed. 

She watches him from the doorway the whole time. 

He’s afraid that if he speaks too loudly with her name on his lips, Keith will see her too. 

  


They’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, Keith leaning his back to rest on the front of his bed and Lance slouching just off of the wall, not willing to cover the art there with his body. 

“I was twelve,” he starts, rubbing his hands together as if washing them. Lance watches them instead of the images playing in his mind’s eye. “We were going home after my  _ Tio Paulo’s  _ wedding.” He pauses. “ _ Tio  _ means uncle.” He adds. 

“It was in our car, a shitty Chrysler. Silver paint that was chipped all over.” He pauses again, taking a deep breath to get rid of some of the edge. “It was me, my  _ Tio  _ Ernesto, his wife Camila and my sister Monika.” His voice drops at Monika. 

The name that Keith hears him say every night, faded with weariness on his breath. Now a whisper in consciousness. 

“There was… an accident.” He continues. Now he’s picking at the skin around his nails, fidgeting where he sits. He’s hiding something, but Keith isn’t about to push him to say anything. “Camila died in the crash, my  _ Tio  _ was put into a coma for two years. I lost the ability to see colour and my 20/20 vision.” He lets loose a slight smirk at that, but it dies at the flicker of lilac in the corner of his eye. 

“Monika, though,” he blinks away from her, closing his eyes to stop hearing her voice. “She was in bad shape. Her heart stopped three times, but she was stubborn as fuck.” He opens his eyes and sees Keith there, his eyes wide with shock at the story. Anxiety making his hands tremble in his lap. But he wants to hear what Lance has to say. It’s written all over his face in clear block text. His eyes beg to hear more. 

“I kind of wish she had died,” he continues, softly. “ _ That’s  _ how bad she was. It was double kidney failure that really got her. And I was the only person compatiable.” 

He hears Keith take in a sharp breath, see his shaking hands clasp themselves tightly in his lap. But Lance presses on. It’s too late to stop now. He gathers himself for a moment, then slowly tugs off his shirt. He sits himself up and out of his slouch, turning so that Keith can see his right side. 

A scar about the size of a pen cuts across his abdomen, touching his hipbone and slicing upwards to the bottom of his ribcage. Keith leans forward to look, seeing small dots where staples  or stitches must have gone in meshing with Lance’s freckles. He looks up at Lance with a half extended hand. There’s a wordless exchange when their eyes meet and Keith reaches out to lightly touch the scar. Lance doesn’t flinch away as Keith expected him to. He’s actually sure that he leans into his touch a little. 

“Does it-” he stops himself, clearing his throat and pulling his hand away to look at Lance. He’s staring back at him with an ocean during a storm in his eyes. “Does it still hurt sometimes?” 

Lance slips his shirt back over his head when Keith moves his hand away. He nods. 

“Yeah, sometimes.” 

They sit in silence for awhile longer. Lance decides he’s done talking about his past and Keith tries to process what he’s been given. It’s a lot, especially this early on a Saturday morning. 

“Hey,” Keith breaks the silence, snapping Lance’s attention from the artworks on his walls. “Do you want to go out and get coffee today? I’ll pay.” 

Lance smiles. 

“Beats our canned shit.” 

  


+++

  


_ “Are you coming outside?” _

_ Gentle, kind, but unwanted to his ears. He shakes his head, gaze not leaving the blocks on the floor.  _

_ “Please, Keith,” it continues speaking. He doesn’t want it to. It doesn’t sound right anymore and he hates it.   _

_ “It’ll be good for both of us.”  _

_ Keith shakes his head again, squeezing his eyes shut. He refuses to say anything to the imposter behind him. She can pretend all she wants, but Keith doesn’t buy it for a second.  _

_ “Pl-” she’s cut off by a violent coughing fit, wet-sounding and grotesque. The sound of something that is not her living in her body. He wants to rip it out, get rid of it, but he can’t.  _

_ He covers his ears to stop hearing it, hums something under his breath.  _

_ It doesn’t stop, but his hands drop from his ears when he hears a loud thump.  _

_ She’s on the floor, a bloody hand over her mouth and crimson staining her dressing gown. She doesn’t stop coughing and more blood appears. He hums louder, hands shaking, unable to move or close his eyes at the sight. He would scream if the humming would stop, he would help her if is body could move.  _

_ But all he can do is watch as the monster takes the life from her, an old tune on his lips.  _

  


+++

  


The class stands up quickly, in a rush to get out and to their next lesson as soon as they possibly can. Keith shoves his notebook into his bag and slings it over his shoulder, following the rest of his classmates out the door. Lance, being one of the first people to leave Allura’s classroom, waits for him at the doorway. 

“Keith,” he turns around at the sound of his name, seeing Allura on the other side of the room. She’s collecting pencils from around the room and fallen papers from the floor. She beckons him over and Keith complies, curious. 

He’s overwhelmed by the smell of cloves and lavender that she always possesses, as constant as her flowing clothing and regal air. He stands nervously as she picks up a pencil from the floor, then meets his eyes. 

Hers are blue, like Lance’s, but where Lance’s eyes are like the ocean, Allura’s are icy and crisp. Colder than the Himalayas and twice as impossible to conquer. He doesn’t bother challenging her stare, instead shifts his gaze to his hands. 

“Yes?” he mumbles, slightly terrified. Allura is lovely, he knows that, but something about being alone with her makes him feel very small and nervous. He’s sure his voice has gone up a couple of octaves. 

“I was wondering if you’d be okay with me submitting some of your works to an upcoming exhibition,” she says, turning around and putting the pencils on the table behind her. The same table Lance dumped him on during his first class. He smiles fondly at the memory of his first day. It had been nerve-wracking, but had brought him to where he was now. 

“I think you’d have an excellent chance of being accepted,” Allura continues, turning around with her hands resting loosely on her hips. “Though it’s totally up to you.” 

Keith thinks about it for a moment, chewing on a nail in thought. Allura is not patient, but for Keith, she’s learned to be. She waits for him to make his decision, knowing that he will in his own time. The way he does everything. 

Eventually he nods. 

“Okay,” he responds, chancing a look at Allura. He’s always startled by her, her aura of strength and power, the way she hold herself. The iciness of her eyes. But he trusts her. “Did you have anything in mind?” 

She beams back at him, brighter than he’s ever seen. 

“I was thinking about displaying the series you did with the boy underwater,” she replies. “Is that okay?” 

Keith reddens a little at the mention of that work. It was one of his better ones, but the subject matter was a little… personal. 

“Um, yeah,” he bites into the skin of his thumb, having run out of nail quickly. “Yeah, that’s fine.” Allura gives him a final smile. 

“Thank you, Keith.” She says as he turns to leave. 

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, giving her a wave before falling into step behind Lance. He raises his eyebrows as a question, but Keith just shrugs. 

“Later,” he says. Lance nods, knowing not to pry. 

  


+++

  


Later turns out to be two weeks later, the day of the exhibition. 

  


Keith had found out that he managed to get in a week earlier and spent the latter week trying to figure out how to tell Lance. 

It wasn’t that he was nervous about showing Lance his art, their walls were covered in it. It was just the subject matter really. It was a bit too personal. Even after all they’d been through, he couldn’t quite bare it. 

Even after the things Lance had told him. 

  


He found out rather than being told. 

“Hey Keith,” Keith looks up from the wall he’s scribbling on, a paintbrush tucked behind his ear and a pencil end in his mouth. He turn around with a ‘hm?’ 

Lance hands him a paper, printed on an offensive shade of yellow with faded black lettering. It’s crumpled and soft in his hands. 

“What am I looking at?” Keith asks, setting the pencil down in his lap. 

“It’s an exhibition coming up in a nearby museum,” Lance replies, arms crossed. “And your name is on it as a participant.”

Keith’s eyes widen. 

“Oh fuck,” he chews on the pencil. “I was going to tell you, I just couldn’t figure out how…” 

Lance laughs, throwing Keith off. 

“Don’t worry,” he replies. “Allura told me about it a few days after she asked you. I just wanted to freak you out.” 

Keith gapes, having his guard forcibly removed from beneath him. 

“Can we go?” Lance asks. “You know I love your work. Bit peeved about not being asked to enter myself, but whatever.” 

Keith shuts his mouth forcibly, looking away from Lance with pink in his cheeks. 

_ No fuck fuck no no fuck fuck no no fuck fuck no no fuck…  _

“I, uh-” He stutters to a halt, feeling panic burning in him. Rising red-hot in his chest. A volcano ready to erupt on a whim. He feels guilty for not telling Lance, feels threatened by the thought of him going and seeing his work, the thing that he create about something… very personal. 

Lance frowns, seeing Keith’s hands go up to cover his ears, his breaths coming in short and shallow. He shuts his eyes to gather himself and Lance knows right away what’s happening. He crouches down next to him, pulling a stick of gum from his pocket and offering it to him. 

He knows better than to comfort him physically when he gets like this. Once he tried to give Keith a hug when his breaths came short and sharp over an upcoming exam. He screamed, loud enough to shake the walls and raise some concerns from his neighbours. He apologised profusely afterwards, embarrassed by his reaction to something as ‘simple’ as a hug. 

But Lance understood. He’d never felt so nervous about physical affection, but he understood it. 

  


He’d learnt over time how to help Keith when things like this happened, when the world became too much and his thoughts sent him someone inside himself; panicked. Giving him gum was something that seemed to help him a lot, it calmed him down quickly and stopped him from bleeding everywhere when he bit the inside of his mouth to pieces. So that was Lance’s first course of action. 

  


But when he shook so hard he couldn’t unwrap it, curled so far into himself that he could barely see, Lance fell onto plan B.

  


Keith hummed tunes all the time; when he was nervous, deep in thought, tired, upset. He was always humming something that lance didn’t know; songs of a bygone era. He’s started recognising some of them after living with Keith for over a month, noticing when one tune stopped and became another. He wasn’t a good singer, but he’d made up songs for his younger siblings frequently enough to have a bit of a knack for it. Mostly bits from other songs, small snippets glued together in a paper chain. 

  


So he sings to him, terribly, but in a tune that he recognises. A tune that makes his breaths slow and his trembling hands to freeze up. It’s something Lance could never do without the tunes and he wondered why they had so much power. 

_ “Just stop and wait a minute,”  _

Keith takes in a shuddering breath, head still in hands. 

_ “Why don’t you stop and think a minute and” _

Slowly, his hands stop shaking and he unfurls himself. A flower in bloom, ready to see the sun. 

_ “Why don’t you wait and breathe a second,”  _

His hands drop from his ears, dark hair falling over them instead.

_ Why don't you start from the very beginning…?  _

Lance trails off when he realises Keith is looking at him. He’s scared for a moment that he’s overstepped a boundary, crossed a line. But then Keith’s face breaks into a half smile. He looks exhausted from what just happened and deeply apologetic. 

“Your singing is awful,” he murmurs. It’s good-natured though and Lance fakes being offended, a hand over his heart.  

“You wound me,” he deadpans. 

Keith laughs, small. Uncertain. He looks at his hands. 

“Sorry, that was stupid,” Keith says, balling his hands into fists. “I always freak out over stupid things and-” 

“It’s alright Keith,” Lance says easily, pushing it to the side. Bringing Keith back from the place he’d just been. He sits down beside him on the floor, resting his arm on his shoulder to comfort him. “I get it, okay? You don’t have to apologise, it’s okay.”

They sit in silence for a moment, Keith twirling the paint brush between his fingers, not trusting himself enough to speak. 

“So I guess that’s a no to the exhibition?” Lance says, breaking the silence with a question to leave room for Keith to respond. Keith shakes his head slowly, not in a ‘no’ but in an uncertain  gesture. 

“I…” He swallows. “I don’t mind you seeing my art, you know that.” He gestures vaguely to the wall he had been painting on just moments before. “But it’s just a bit… personal. I’m not ready yet. Maybe one day, but not now.”

Lance nods. He takes his hand from Keith’s shoulder, setting it in his lap a little awkwardly. 

“Alright,” he replies. “But if you want to go without me, I’m okay with that.” 

Keith shakes his head, resting it on Lance’s shoulder; suddenly tired and already missing the lack of physical contact. He’s raw and sensitive, having had all of his energy drained over a sudden (and useless) burst of panic.

“Nah,” he replies. “I hate those things. Snooty people walking around and judging people’s art; it makes me sick.” 

Lance laughs and Keith moves with him, feeling the buzz in his chest. 

“With orange moustaches,” Lance says. 

“With orange moustaches.”

  


+++

  


_ “Mama?”  _

_ “Yes mijo?”  _

_ “Do you think I can go and see Tio Paulo again?”  _

_ She looks up from what she’s doing. He knows that the dress she is wearing is yellow, but he’s forgotten what colour the flowers on the collar were. He’s still not used to it, so much so that he can’t even say the word that the doctors gave him.  _

_ “He’s very sick Lance…”  _

_ “I know, but so was Monika,”  _

_ Her face instantly darkens. “That was different.”  _

_ The gentle breeze in her voice has settled, she’s cold now. He persists.  _

_ “But I fixed her,” he continues, voice coming out as a whine. He can feel tears stinging the back of his eyes, the lump of a sob in his throat. “Mama, I fixed Monika. Maybe I can fix Tio Paulo too.”  _

_ She shakes her head. “It’s not that simple mijo…”  _

_ And he breaks.  _

  


+++

  


He wipes the tears from his face hurriedly, halting a sob halfway through. 

He’s sitting cross-legged on bed, succumbing to the memories for the first time in a long time. It’s been over a month since he last cried like this, at least that long. 

It doesn’t necessarily feel good, he doesn’t feel like he’s able to let go of the things that leave him like this, unable to leave them as tear stained pillowcases and smudged paint; the way he can with the smaller things. 

It’s not a wound like other things, it’s a scar. Wounds heal, but scars can do nothing more than fade to something less than they were. Always present; never gone. 

  


“Lance wh-” 

The sound that had him quickly wiping away his tears, pretending to be on his phone to appear normal. Keith’s voice, raised loud to get his attention and even louder when he opened the door. 

Lance hoped his eyes weren’t too red. And that his voice didn’t waver too much when he said “hey Keith,”. 

He plasters on a wobbly smile, but the glue is uneven and the job is rushed. 

Keith sees right through it. 

“Fuck Lance,” he says, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” 

Lance doesn’t stop smiling, too shocked by the fact that he’d been found out to react in any other way. 

“Nothing,” Lance replies, almost beaming. Like a lightbulb instead of the sun. “What are you doing back so soon? I thought you had your class with Shiro?” 

“I forgot my sketchbook,” he replies, eyes locking with Lance’s. He can see him calculating, trying to figure it out. And also, underneath all the concern and confusion, he sees him taking photos. Committing the moment to memory. “Lance, please. What’s wrong?” 

He looks at Keith. Really looks at him, without the need to smile to reassure him, without thoughts of inadequacy. He  _ looks. _

And he breaks. 

  


Keith’s arms are around him before he really loses it. He cries, cries like he never has before. It’s raw and genuine, tears that run almost as deep as his veins, a sadness that comes from his bones. Here, in Keith’s arms, he sobs so loud and so hard that it leaves him shaking. Sniffling. 

And Keith. Brilliant Keith. 

He holds him through it as though he’s done it all before. He doesn’t flinch when Lance squeezes him tightly, doesn’t move when his tears make his shirt almost unwearable. He doesn’t even speak. 

Because they both know there is nothing either boy could possibly say. 

  


+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haaaaappy birthday to me.


	7. Photophobia // Charteuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith gets some interesting news

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey again!   
> so, this chapter is pretty short. but do not fear, as there's another one coming out right on the tail of this one.   
> it's going to get very angsty, so be prepared ;)   
> also! we hit 3000 views? i'm??? so happy????   
> ty all so much and hope you enjoy!

** photophobia **

fəʊtə(ʊ)ˈfəʊbɪə

_noun_

 extreme sensitivity to light.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

“Keith,” 

He looks up, head spinning as his eyes try to focus on the person who spoke; feeling dizzy as a wave of lavender and cloves hits him head-on. It’s not unpleasant but is a little unexpected. 

“Yeah?” He sets his pencil down to give her his full attention, white hair and blue eyes in his vision.

She glances at the paper for a moment, graphite lines forming and shaping an image she can’t yet understand. One that she probably won’t be able to even when it’s finished. 

“How are you?” She asks, sitting in front of the easel to his left. Normally Lance would sit there, but he’d been having a bad day. Keith raises his eyebrows. Allura is kind, but she’s also straightforward. She’s never asked him how he is, not being one to mince words. Must be something big. 

“I’m… fine,” he replies, voice raised in more of a question than a statement of his wellbeing. “Is-is something wrong?” 

Allura’s face changes from a fake cheeriness to a slightly offended look. 

“What?” She says, folding her arms in front of her and flicking her long white hair back. “Am I not allowed to ask you how you are?” 

Keith tilts his head to the side, confused. 

“No?” he replies, shifting in his seat. “It’s just that you never do.” 

“Well I suppose that's true,” She replies. Her arms uncross and fold into her lap, rings on her fingers clinking together. “So I have some news.” 

Keith sits up a little, startled by the sudden change in Allura’s voice; a spice to the smell of cloves. She seems to think about it for a moment. 

“So at the exhibition,” she starts and Keith almost groans. 

_ Not the fucking exhibition.  _

Allura notices and crosses her arms again. Angry mode. 

“At the exhibition,” she repeats. “A friend of mine came to have a look. You know, as friends do. He was really impressed by your work, Keith and he is no easy man to impress.” 

Keith wonders where this is going. 

“Anyways,” Allura continues. “He wants you to join him in San Francisco on a kind of internship-work experience thing. It’ll be about a month unless you perform very well and possibly get some stable work.” 

_ What?  _

“I-” he cuts himself off. He was going to say no. He really was.

He’d been uprooted so many times in his life, thrown from place to place since he was six years old. He’d only been here, in the tiny flat with painted walls, for a little over a month. Yet, it had started to feel like home. His room was his, the life he had lead painted on the walls around him. The desk in Shiro’s room was his, small pencil scratches filling the corners that other people would add to when they were there. The stool he sat on in Allura’s class was his, a slight crack in the plastic from the one time he fell with it to the floor. And Lance. 

Lance was  _ his _ friend. 

  


But logic was a cruel mistress. 

He’d been uprooted so many times in his life, so what was one more? He had an opportunity that few artists had; an opportunity for stability. He couldn’t pass it up on sentiment alone. 

“I’ll go,” he says, weaker than he expected. More uncertain. “Is there anything I need to know?” 

  


Allura’s expression is shocked. Eyes wide, mouth agape. She shakes her head, gathering her bearings. When she looks up, her smile is blindingly bright. 

“Just a few,” she replies, and Keith is already regretting his decision. 

  


+++

  


“Hermanoooooo!” 

  


He covers his ears. 

  


“Come on, don’t be like that.” 

  


Shaking his head, aggressive and terrified. Eyes tightly shut. 

  


“Lanccccccce!” 

  


He crushes his head into his pillow, smothering himself with it. Would she just  _ leave him alone.  _

  


“ _ Los pollitos dicen,”  _

  


She’s everywhere. The gap-toothed smile to his left, the smear of lilac to his right. The low hum of her singing voice right in his ear. 

  


“ _ Pio, pio, pio,”  _

  


_ “Lance!”  _

  


He looks up suddenly, recognising the voice as a different one, not  _ hers.  _ His eyes adjust from the blurriness as he sits up through a headspin. He blinks a couple of times to focus. 

“Keith.” 

There’s a lot of emotion in that one word. A lingering sense of fear from seconds earlier, a dash of surprise but mostly an overwhelming sense of relief. He’s no longer alone with her as his only company. Keith is there. He pushes his hair back from his forehead. A haircut’s probably due. 

“Are you okay?” Keith asks, sitting down on the end of the bed. He looks tired. Not physically, but in a bone-weary sort of slump in his shoulders. 

“Yeah,” he lies. Monika can’t hurt him when Keith’s around, so why talk about her at all? “How was class?” He asks

Something passes across Keith’s face, a whisper of a thought that he doesn’t let take shape. Lance raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” 

Keith sighs, picking at his nails. 

“So you remember that exhibition?” He says. He won’t look Lance in the eyes and that scares him. He nods. “Well some artist came around and liked my work. He wants me to do an internship thing with him.” 

Lance’s face lights up, a stab straight to the gut for Keith. 

“That’s great, Keith,” Lance says. But he’s confused, because Keith doesn’t seem happy about it. Keith shakes his head slowly. 

“Is that… not good?” Lance asks, scanning Keith’s face for something; anything. 

“No, it is,” he reassures him. “But, well…” 

An old scab tugs loose and fresh blood pours from a newly opened wound on his hand. A rift. 

“It’s in San Francisco.” 

+++

  


He was a fast packer, the precision and speed the product of years of practice. 

Lance’s face dropped like lead when he told him, the words a death sentence on his tongue. 

“San Francisco”. 

He’d tried to recover a smile, plaster it loosely on his face.It was sad and it broke Keith’s heart. 

But his eyes, the blue that had grown used to over the time they’d spent together. 

They turned grey. 

  


+++

 

It was the worst case scenario. 

Really, without exaggeration. At this point in his life, when the nightmares tore him to shreds and the voices of his past screamed louder than ever, this was literally the worst thing that could happen. 

For him, but not for Keith. 

For him it was a good thing. It was a chance at stability and a shot for his career. An escape from him. 

He honestly didn't know how Keith had put up with him for this long. His family certainly hadn't, and they were  _ supposed _ to love him. 

  


On the day of Keith’s departure, they didn’t speak at all. Lance would try to start up conversation, trying to give him something to come back to. But Keith just stared at the paint on their walls, taking pictures. 

He offered to drive him to the airport, but it wasn't like either of them had a car and Lance was the worst driver ever. So Keith stood in the doorway, expression unreadable and a bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn't look at Lance for a long time. But when he does, Lance’s heart breaks all over again. 

Because he might never see him after this. 

“Well,” Keith says, becoming the nervous boy Lance met for the first time in front of the library. His legs swinging back and forth and his shaking hands being controlled to channel art onto paper. 

The mullet was a bit of a turn-off, made him think “maybe this isn’t such a good idea”. But then he spoke, and everything changed. 

  


And now he was leaving. 

His hair had gotten longer since then, covered his eyes more than it did before. His nails are less ragged than they were when he first met him. But he still looks nervous. He probably always will. 

“This is goodbye then,” he says. It’s the first time he’s really spoken in days. His hands shake. His body shakes. 

“I guess so.” 

They stand across from eachother for awhile in an awkward silence. Lance can see Keith taking his last photos, committing everything he sees here to memory. 

He opens his arms out a little, cautious. Unsure. 

Lance doesn't hesitate. 

He wraps his arms around him tightly, closing his eyes. Keith hugs him back. 

Rather than holding Lance, comforting him, he hugs him tightly. He needs the embrace as much as Lance does. He feels just as vulnerable and unsure, just as scared. 

He takes a breath in through his nose, taking in the scent that is undeniably  _ Lance.  _

  


And then he’s gone. 

 


	8. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this hurts me as much as it hurts you.  
> song is "ralph nader" by staying for the weekend.   
> i'm sorry it's so sad, it'll get better after the next chapter. then there'll be some more angst. but then it'll be happy.

**BLUE** : THE FIRST DAY

 

 _“If you wanna go,_  
_if you’d rather hit the road._  
_I think I’d rather be in space_  
_than be a burden to your miracle…”_

 

Crying would make it all so much easier.

The pain is heavy in his chest, a dead weight that drags him down. It makes him weaker against the whispers, the ghosts.  
And now there’s a new voice.  
_“How was Iverson?”_  
_“Do you want some coffee?”_  
_“This show is shit.”_  
_“Are you okay?”_  
He can’t stand it.

Lance had been homesick for a long time. He still felt it from time-time. A smell would ignite his memories of his mother’s cooking, a sound would remind him of his siblings.  
But he’d never been person-sick before.

He walked around the flat, deflated like a helium balloon left alone too long.  
He sent texts, but he knew how lousy Keith was at replying to them. He rarely did, unless it was extremely important. And his spelling was pretty awful.

To: **Angry Emo**

 - Let me know when u land, if u die then i hav noone to pay the rent  
 - U there yet? It’s been awhile  
 - What’s the colour of the sky in San Francisco?

He waits for hours, an amount of time that seems to stretch out into days. He makes himself coffee, watches TV, makes more coffee. He starts to think that maybe Keith won’t reply. Now that he’s gone, far away from Lance’s crazy, maybe he wants nothing to do with him anymore. Maybe he’s done playing babysitter.  
Then his phone buzzes across the room. He pounces on it like a cat, gripping it in his hands and reading the text on the screen.

From: **Angry Emo**

 - sorry there was a delay on the way in  
 - they thot i was a terrorist or smth  
 - it’s blue  
 - the sky i mean  
 - like the kind of blue that you’d see a baby wear  
 - that soft kind of blue  
 - it’s rlly nice lance

Lance lies on his stomach, reading the messages as they flood in. The three dots bouncing on his screen fill him with suspense as he waits for Keith to finish typing. They stop when Keith is done, the last word being his name. He can feel himself shaking with relief, with joy. Keith was still talking to him. Though he would’ve preferred to have him right there with him, Lance was grateful to have this. He starts typing as soon as he’s sure the dots won’t pop up again.

To: **Angry Emo**

 - I wish I could be there

The reply is instant, a firecracker in his chest. He feels warm when he reads the next to words, assured in a way he wasn’t sure was possible until right then.

From: **Angry Emo**

 - me too

+++

 

 **BLUE** : WEEK TWO

 

 

“There’s no wind on the moon Lance,”  
“That doesn’t mean the moon landing was faked!”  
“It gives pretty good evidence.”  
“Oh my God.”

The lights in the apartment are off. Daylight filters in through the windows, illuminating the room more than the crappy lights can. Lance sits on the floor, legs crossed and glasses perched on the end of his nose. He’s decided to try crayons today, and it stains his fingers and clothes; even his phone screen.  
He looks down at it,a very unattractive shot of Keith on the screen and the number 20:19 in big glowing letters, a smear of crayon over it.

“What are you doing now?” Lance asks, filling the silence. The quiet that happens over the phone is different to when Keith is actually there. It’s a little bit emptier, sharper. It’s bearable, but Lance doesn’t like it.  
“A commission,” Keith replies. Lance can hear a bubble of excitement in his voice, rising to the surface with a slight pop. He’s trying to cover it up with a little bit of apathy, trying not to sound full of himself. But Lance persists.  
“That’s amazing Keith,” Lance says, setting the crayon down and using his thumb to smudge a stain below the eye. It blurs and merges with the shade next to it, a much lighter one.  
Keith chuckles bitterly and it’s weird to hear it without the expression Lance knows he has right next to him. That half smile, quickly covered up with a scowl. Keith always laughs like he doesn’t expect it, like every burst of joy is a surprise to him. Like he doesn’t deserve to laugh at all.  
“I guess so,” he says and he sounds genuinely pleased with himself. It’s a rare thing, a sense of pride in Keith over something he’s done, and Lance feels warm thinking that he helped contribute to that. Just warm speaking to him, really.

“What colours?” Lance asks.

Before Keith left, they had a habit going. Keith would be painting, drawing; creating art somewhere and Lance would watch. It was a routine, cathartic for both of them in every way. Being next to each other, hearing their breaths and engaging in idle chatter.  
Then one day, Lance had asked: “what colours?”  
Keith barely skipped a beat when he responded.  
He named each colour he poured out of the paint tube and onto the palate, gave reasons for each.  
Lance loved it, could almost see the colour that Keith painted with, flowing from his brush with a gentle precision. Colours with names like turquoise, coquelicot, debian red, absolute zero; they rolled off his tongue like poetry.  
They’d kept up the habit, even now, twenty minutes into a phone call connecting the two boys miles apart.

This time though, Keith is silent. Deliberating on the other side of the line. Just when Lance thinks he’s not going to reply, he pipes up.  
“Blue,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Just… blue.”  
Lance frowns, confused by his response. Keith notices the tension and speaks again, voice high with a touch of anxiety.  
“I’m trying the way you paint,” he continues. “With the shades of the one colour. I haven’t really done it before.”  
“Oh,” Lance rights himself, picking up the crayon again. He remembers blue well. It’s his favourite colour. Or… was? He feels a little honoured really, knowing that Keith is mimicking something he’s doing .  
He shakes his head. “Of course.”  
For about three minutes, there is only the sound of Keith’s breathing over the phone. Even that is more comfortable than the silence Lance has been with ever since Keith left, echoes of ghosts sneaking into pockets of quiet, filling the air with whispers like smoke.

He’s almost gone deaf and the neighbours have told him to turn his damn music down.

Keith doesn’t say anything more and Lance changes the conversation, sensing some discomfort in Keith. He doesn't know why it’s there, but he doesn't want Keith to dwell on it.  
“Have you made any schnazzy San Francisco friends?” He asks it as a joke, but really, he’s scared that Keith has. He knows it’s stupid, but thinking about Keith making new friends makes him nervous. It gives him little to come back for. He can feel him slipping away, falling through his fingers like everyone else does.  
“Not really,” Keith replies, snapping Lance out of his self-deprecating tangent. “Coran is the only person I’ve really spoken to so far. But he’s kind of my boss in a way? I don’t know, it’s weird.”  
Still, that discomfort. Heavy in his voice like mercury. Lance is a little hesitant in his response, that same uncomfortable silence lingering around them.  
“Well you’ve always got me,” Lance replies, putting the crayon away and looking at his finished work. It seems wrong somehow, almost missing something. He decides to paint over it later.  
“Yeah,” Keith replies. But it sounds a little hollow, a touch of uncertainty in his voice. “I guess I do.”

 

+++

 

 **BLUE** : WEEK FOUR

  
_“Reciprocal_  
_Jesus_  
_Receiving feelings of resentment on the telephone_  
_He said he's sorry_  
_I think he means it,”_

  
Lance broke his first bone when he was seven years old.  
It was a classic, the infamous falling out of a tree arm snap, clear in his memory every time he looked over the edge of a bridge and dangled his legs from an open window.  
It happened in a park that his family visited often, two of his older siblings standing below him and egging him on. One smeared in lilac, the other nearly an adult at the time and only a blur to him now.

He reached a little too high that day, fingertips only just brushing the branch above him while his legs lifted in a jump. His entire body felt charged with static as he plummeted to the floor, a small scream in his throat.  
He could hear the break before the pain flooded his body, a crack similar to the crunching of a branch underfoot. Loud as all hell and screaming that something very wrong had just happened.

And then the pain.

So strong and wild that it winded him, rendering his breaths short and jagged. There was blood from a scrape on his knee, screams from his siblings as they called for their mother and a boy lying on the floor, watching himself from a place far away.

It took him a second to cry, the pain such a fast surprise that it took his tear ducts a few moments to catch up.  
And then he bawled, no longer watching himself but living the moment in a crashing cacophony. Cradling his injured arm to his chest, he wished for the hurt to just stop.

  
Heartbreak, to him, feels the same as breaking his arm that day. But it's longer, slower. The same shocked pain extended over weeks, days of tears and the winded feeling of lead in his chest for what feels like centuries. He knows it all too well.

But this. This is worse.

 

 

They’d fought over something stupid.  
Well, it had started as something stupid. Lance had asked something that Keith didn’t like. Keith blew up, Lance retaliated.  
It was petty, idiotic.

Then it took a turn, became a lot more personal.  
Keith made a jab at Lance’s nightmares, Lance said something about Keith’s family.  
The blows that were only skin deep crept a lot further, neither of them could leave well enough alone.  
  
It ended in screaming and a cracked phone on one end and a cracked fist on the other.  
And two cracked boys holding themselves together in a world that wanted to break them into pieces.

 

+++

 

 **BLUE** : WEEK FIVE

 

“Hi Keith,”

He goes to his classes.  
Not because he wants to, but because he knows he has to.  
His mother didn’t work her ass off in the ER for days on end just to have her worst child waste it on a boy who wouldn’t call him back.

“It’s been awhile.”

He does okay in his classes.  
He feels like it’s his fault, because it is. He stuck his nose where it didn’t belong and refused to pull back when something bit it. Allura asks him if he’s okay, Shiro tells him he can talk to him about anything. And he wants to talk, but not to them.  
Because there’s nothing to say. It’s stupid. Lance is stupid. Because he should have seen this coming.

“How are things?”

He’s recorded voicemails for over a week, sent texts all lined up one after the other.

“I’m sorry.”

They all leave him at some point or another. His oldest sibling, Ernesto, left him as the only boy in the family. His friend Katie from school left him because she was too smart, accelerated herself to a level he could never reach. His father left him for no reason, he just got up and ran away one day.  
His aunt, uncle and unborn cousin left him while they screamed at each other, his uncle finally getting angry enough to end them all, pulling the steering wheel to the side.  
Monika left him with one kidney and the memory of lilac stained everywhere he looked, even when he could no longer see colour.  
His best friend, the one he’d shared an apartment with had left him for a course he could get nowhere else. He and Hunk kept in contact, but it wasn’t the same as it used to be.  
And now Keith.  
Keith had left him with paint on the walls and an added hole in his heart.  
He’d left him with less nightmares than he’d had before. He’d left him with poetry in place of colour whenever he looked up at the sky. He’d left him with text messages all one -sided and his smell everywhere Lance went. He left him with a shadow of a person at the corner of his eye, voice raised in concern, lips pointed upwards in a grin.

“I hope things are good in San Francisco.”

He realised just how pathetic he was.  
The fact that whenever someone got close, they pulled away.

“I’m really sorry about what I said.”

He was tired of being crazy, of being insecure.  
He was tired of being clingy, of needing someone so much that he gave his heart away to any soul who would listen.  
He was tired of being him, really.  
Tired of being Lance fucking Mcclain.

“I’m sorry.”

So he just stopped.

+++

 

 **BLUE** : WEEK SIX

_“I think I’d rather be in space_  
_Than be_  
_Anything at all…”_

  
He started to excel in his classes in the theory side of things. He rose to the top of the ranks, was showered in praise and awards.  
He was given pats on the back, nods of encouragement.  
His art stopped having feeling to it. It wasn’t his anymore.  
It belonged to the stranger that looked at him in the mirror every morning, all lifeless eyes and steely expression. He hated that face almost as much as the one’s he drew.  
They were blank and lifeless, drab as the colours he could see. He didn’t look up at the sky and see poetry anymore.  
He just saw grey.  
He couldn’t recognise his paintings as anything close to human. But his technique was good enough to get him through and the people who praised his work obviously didn't see people the way he did. In words like charteuse and crimson, he smudged people to life. At least the person whose name he wrote on his work did.  
But he didn’t know that person.  
He didn’t know any of the people who sat around his house either. He ignored the lilac girl and pretended that the boy with the dark hair didn’t exist; even when he wouldn’t stop talking.

_“Are you okay?”_  
_“Do you want some coffee?”_

He stopped crying, because what was the point? He’d already cried an ocean in his life, no need to flood it.  
He stopped sleeping as much because he’d rather be awake than haunted by the images of his past, the voices of everyone he’d lost.  
He stopped staying around the apartment as much, because it left an empty feeling in his stomach.  
He stopped listening to the concerned voice behind his eyes, just out of his peripheral vision.

_“Are you okay?”_  
_“Do you want some coffee?”_

He hadn’t touched the kettle in over a week.

+++

 

**BLUE**

 

He wakes up to the sound of his phone buzzing.  
Probably Shiro or Allura, asking about how he’s doing. They’ve been doing that for awhile.  
He’s too tired to see the screen, his eyes bleary with sleep as he slides his thumb across the phone.  
“Hello?” He says, rolling over to his back and rubbing his eyes. His voice comes out flat, belonging to someone that’s not him.  
He’s greeted with a sob, choked out in a way that’s so strained. As though it’s been going on for hours. Wheezy and crushed-sounding.  
“Lance,” He hears, weak and scared. Very, very scared. He sits up, quick enough to make his head spin.  
“Keith?” He murmurs in shock.  
“Lance I’m-” He chokes on his words, another sob bubbling out of his throat.  
It is Keith. His voice is so familiar to him, yet so different hearing it right in his ear after weeks of not speaking to him. “Fuck, I’m just so so sorry.” He whispers, voice strained over tears.  
“What’s wrong?” Lance asks. Because he is Lance again, with Keith talking to him. He switches on the light and sees his room light up with words in place of the grey. He crosses his legs beneath him.  
“Keith, what’s going on?” His voice is raised in concern, more awake than he’s felt in weeks.  
Keith doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. He’s really crying; properly crying.  
Lance has never seen Keith cry before.  
And the way Keith cries?  
It’s like he hasn’t either.

It sounds so desperate and surprised. Each sob is held back and restrained, muffled into his hand as he tries desperately to contain it, to hide the sounds and keep them deep within him.  
“I should’ve called you, should’ve said sorry-” he stutters, fumbles, another wet sob breaking through. “I fucked up Lance, I fucked up…”  
“What?” Lance leans back against the headboard, concerned and upright, afraid for his friend. “Keith it’s okay. Are you alright? Did something happen?”  
He can hear Keith shaking his head, sobbing too hard to get words out. He’s pretty much wheezing out tears, out of breath and filled with a sadness he can't control.  
Lance wants to hold him, he really does.  
He sounds so vulnerable, so alone with his cries bouncing off the walls.  
“Lance I-” He inhales, tries to compose himself to get the words out. “I really miss you. I miss the apartment, I miss the classes, I miss Allura and Shiro and I miss the shitty coffee you always buy-”  
He cracks, breaks all over again.  
In slow motion almost, with Lance sitting in a stunned silence.  
“I just-” Another sob. “I can’t be here anymore Lance.”  
He really sound so scared, so vulnerable that even the slightest breath of wind. It breaks Lance’s heart. Before he can say anything to reassure him, Keith speaks again  
“I can’t stay in San Francisco.” He murmurs, but with enough finality to leave Lance reeling in the dark.  
Lance composes himself enough to speak.  
“Come back then,” Lance replies. Gently, as if trying to calm a wounded animal. He feels the effect of his next words on Keith, a sudden wave of relief crashing over both of them as Lance speaks, murmurs into the microphone.  
“Come back home.” He whispers.  
Keith starts crying again, but it’s out of relief instead of fear. Lance hugs him with reassuring words and Keith accepts it.

+++


	9. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We hear Keith's side of the story. (childhood abuse, referenced suicidal thoughts and death content warning)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!   
> i'm sorry this chapter took so long. my life has been a little hectic recently and this chapter was also just... really long??? i think it's about 6,000 words, which is the most so far.   
> to re-iterate, be wary of some mentioned abuse, death and suicidal thoughts in this chapter towards the end.   
> hope you enjoy!

**RED:** THE FIRST DAY

 

_ “Don't know what to say I really doubt my fall, I don't know enough _

_ Now I've been waiting, but I'm so caught up in my own fuss _

_ I need to relate it but I feel so distant from everyone…”  _

 

The airport was his worst nightmare. 

 

Everything was a synthetic, pristine white that made his head throb, an ache just behind his eyes. People smiled at him from every corner in bright red and languages flitted around him like stray moths, some he recognised and many he did not.

He couldn’t grasp onto anything, couldn’t find anything sturdy enough to latch onto in the chaos of his location. Bags rolled with monotonous clicks, women wearing lots of lipstick smiled at those speaking to them, people yammered away on phones and his head spun trying to take it all in. 

He had chewed through his nails the night before, thinking about leaving the apartment. He couldn’t even bite his nails to hold him in place, couldn’t chew through the inside of his mouth. He wanted gum, the spearmint that Lance always gave him when he saw him shaking, biting away at himself. He wanted Lance, really. To keep in grounded in this new place with just so much going on. 

But he wasn’t here. 

So he pushed through it, telling himself that he could have a breakdown about it  later, on the plane maybe. Anytime other than  _ right now _ , with his bag slung over one shoulder and people eyeing him cautiously. He must have been shaking, must look as nervous as he feels. All of the eyes on him makes it worse, really. 

 

He ducks his head, walks towards the counter with his ticket. 

The lady smiles at him. It’s strained and he sees a little bit of red on her two front teeth. Dark like cherries and with just as much of gloss to it. It shimmers, contrasted against her milky-coloured skin. 

“Hi, how can I help you?” She asks. Her voice is a little high-pitched, but with an aftertone of monotony coming through.  He can only imagine how many times she’s said the exact same thing. 

Keith doesn’t meet her eyes, just slides his ticket and passport over the counter. It’s a bit high and he has to stand on his tiptoes to reach, the marble ashy in colour and a nice change from everything around him. He stares at it, finds solace in its darkness that the harsh light around him can’t provide.

‘San Francisco?” He feels bad for her, being stuck with this nervous kid who won’t say a thing. He nods slowly, never looking passed her lips. 

“It’s nice this time of year,” she says, seemingly unperturbed by his silence. He has to give her credit for her determination. “Your flight departs at seven am. Have a safe trip.” She hands him back his passport and his ticket, now encased in a bulk of other documents. 

He manages to look at her enough to give a small smile and a mumbled “thanks” before he ducks his head and walks away; right into the belly of the beast. 

 

+++

 

When the plane landed, Keith decided that he’ll go for a sleeping pill next time. 

It wasn’t even a turbulent flight, and it only lasted about an hour. But he decided he never wanted to deal with it again. 

 

He’s sitting down now, outside the airport with one leg crossed over the other and his bag at his side. Apparently Allura’s friend is supposed to be picking him up, but he’s not entirely sure anymore. It’s been almost an hour and Keith is considering taking a the next taxi that comes through. 

There’s an exhaustion gnawing at him, the anxiety from the day pulling his muscles tight and winding his stomach into a pulp. It takes a lot out of him, makes him a little weaker against the world. 

He pulls out his phone, switching it on after at least two hours of it being off. The text messages flood in almost immediately, chirps like birds filling his ears. The sounds are harsh, but welcome, and Keith smiles a little when he sees the familiar name on his screen. 

 

From:  **Lance-a-lot**

 

 

  * __Let me know when u land, if u die then i hav noone to pay the rent__


  * _U there yet? It’s been awhile_


  * _What’s the colour of the sky in San Francisco?_



 

 

He chuckles slightly at the first text, knowing full well the whole rent situation. The last text though, that makes him think. 

He looks up and it hits him. 

He’s so far away from the apartment now. From painted walls, the door that has to be kicked to be opened and Lance Jr’s quiet whistles when the water boils. 

There are things that are so similar that had him believe that he wasn’t; the same colour sky, the same gravel roads. But other things are so different. The smell is so unlike where he had been only hours before, the temperature feels on the warm side and the houses are something completely different to anything he’d seen before. He looks back down at his phone, typing out a reply to Lance. He feels some of the weariness slip from his limbs as he types, the words to Lance being a good anchor for him. 

 

To:  **Lance-a-lot**

 

  * sorry there was a delay on the way in 
  * they thot i was a terrorist or smth 
  * it’s blue
  * the sky i mean
  * like the kind of blue that you’d see a baby wear
  * that soft kind of blue
  * it’s rlly nice lance



 

He looks up at the sky again, seeing clouds go passed like fast-moving glaciers. They inch forward and he takes photos of them with his mind. The whites and greys, sewn together with a rushed needle on a canvas of baby blue. He traces out shapes in them until his phone buzzes in his hand.

He looks down at the screen, brighter than the sun and the feeling it give him is twice as warm as it ducks behind a cloud. He reads it, stomach flip-flopping a little at the words there. 

 

From:  **Lance-a-lot**

 

 

  * __I wish I could be there__



 

 

He hesitates in his reply, completely sure of what to say but not sure if he should say it at all. He watches an old car zoom past, bright yellow in colour and vibrant. A punch bug by the looks of it. He taps the toeas of his shoes together before quickly typing out his reply and hitting the send button before he can second-guess himself. 

_ This is a bad idea _ . 

 

To:  **Lance-a-lot**

 

  * me too 



 

With a shuddering breath, he drags his eyes away from the phone, noticing a flicker of movement in front of him. He looks up and comes face-to-face with a man. He’s sporting an orange moustache and standing before the yellow car with a huge smile. Khaki cargo pants, a flower printed shirt and round sunglasses perched at the end of his nose. 

“Hello,” he says, and his voice reminds Keith of a bouncing ball. A little  _ sproing  _ to all of his words. “Are you Keith?” 

Keith looks around nervously. 

“Um,” he picks at the end of his thumb. “Yes?” 

“Great,” he replies, practically yelling as he turns away. “Let’s get going then.” 

He steps into the driver's seat of the yellow car. As Keith stands up to open the passenger seat, a wave of regret washes over him. 

He mumbles a small ‘fuck’ before opening the door and swinging into his seat. 

  
  


+++

  
  


**RED:** WEEK TWO 

 

“ _ You can find me on a good day,  _

_ Laughing ‘til the sun comes up…”  _

 

The man’s name is Coran. 

 

He runs a low key art studio with surprisingly good business, tucked away neatly in one of the small houses of San Francisco. 

It’s a quirky little place that literally always smells like sunscreen and earl grey tea, despite none of those things ever being around. 

There’s a cafe attached to it, a purple beaded curtain acting as a wall between it and the art studio. 

The art studio consists of a single green sofa, a radio piled onto a brown coffee table and at least seven bookshelves stuffed to maximum capacity smashed into every edge of the room. There are plants everywhere the books are not, making the whole place look like some kind of post-modern jungle. 

 

Keith hadn’t had time to settle in since he arrived, Coran’s personality being  too much of a chaotic whirlwind to let him rest for a single moment.  He rushed him inside, hurriedly showed him his room and then immediately set him to work with a whole pile of commissions. People had apparently seen his work at the infamous exhibition and were eager to have him create something more personal for them. Keith remembers Coran offering him tea at one point, but then ran off before he  could answer. 

He honestly had no idea how he and Allura got along. 

Where Allura was all calm rage and gentle fire, Coran was magma about to burst from a  volcano. 

 

And the orange moustache. 

He honestly couldn’t believe that his art had  _ quite literally  _ been viewed by a man with an orange moustache. A reasonably rich man as well; with a funny accent and a pointy nose that seemed to perfectly match his image of an art critic. He’d told Lance about it when he was in the car on the way to the studio. Lance had called him back two minutes later laughing maniacally and unable to get words out because of it. 

 

Other than the chaos that was Coran, it was a pretty peaceful place. 

The customers who came in were all extremely friendly and when Coran wasn’t giving him work to do frantically, it was very quiet. The cafe was probably the main breadwinner. When he sat on the green sofa, he could hear the buzz of people in the other room; chatting, placing orders and asking for the day’s special. 

It always smelled nice, but Keith barely had the courage to ask where he could find the bathroom, let alone if he could get a cup of coffee and the soup of the day. 

 

He had sat in silence the first time Coran went out, hanging from the edge of his bed upside down and thinking about life as a whole. He drews circles with his index finger on the white of his walls, imagining spirals and shapes pouring from them in place of the blankness. 

 

The second time though, he’d called Lance. 

They’d talked about something stupid until Keith heard Coran’s announced arrival of “I’m back!” and promptly said goodbye to go and deal with “Hurricane Coran”. 

 

This time though, Lance calls Keith. 

 

He’s sitting on the sofa in the shared space downstairs, the place with the green sofa and the radio that’s always playing jazz. There’s another kid there who tends to the coffee shop. Keith has no idea what their name is or even  their gender. The closest thing to a proper interaction they’ve had was Keith asking them if they wanted some coffee once and them, without looking up from their computer screen, raising a mug of coffee half their size in response. 

 

He side-eyes the other person there, engrossed in something on their laptop, the light reflecting off round glasses, before he decides to take the call upstairs “just in case”. He and Lance rarely talk about anything important over the phone, but something about their conversations seems private, only to be shared between them. 

 

They talk the day away, a conversation that starts about nothing and ends with something that makes Keith uncomfortable. 

He’s been asked about friends before, but never with that insecure edge in Lance’s tone. He tries to brush it off with a luagh, but it nags at Keith for the rest of the day. 

Lance’s voice in his ear saying “well you’ve alway got me” is the last thing he hears from him before he has to go, a hurried goodbye on his tongue and the echo of his voice in his head. 

Honey and caramel blocking his ears. 

 

+++

 

**RED:** WEEK THREE

  
  


It went from quiet to crazy  _ very  _ fast. 

 

Little did he know, but the cafe got  _ very  _ busy.

He’d heard the buzz of life from behind the curtain a few times, but it had never turned into a roar. 

 

It became so busy at times that Keith was wrangled into helping out whenever he wasn’t filling out a commission. 

Which, to be fair, was a fair amount of the time. 

 

He could make a good coffee apparently, which was a surprise to him, Coran and the kid who was always around. He was lucky when that was his job, but if Coran had to go somewhere, he was on cashier duty. Apparently he was more charismatic than the small person who always worked behind the counter. Which was surprising, because Keith had the social competency of a potato. 

Cashier work turned out to be literally his worst nightmare. 

 

He’s staring at a customer now, gripping the counter to support himself against whatever is coming his way. This guy is the fifteenth he’s served today, and he’s not sure how many more faces he can take, especially when he has to ask their names. 

“Hi,” he says, and he’s sure his voice sounds as tired as he feels. “What would you like?” 

The person on the other side of the counter beams back at him, warm as the sun and as invigorating to Keith as the sun is to flowers. He blinks a few times, reeling from the sudden burst of life in him. 

He looks at the person behind the counter, looks better than he has at anyone for the past few hours. 

His nails are long and painted yellow; which is the first thing Keith notices. 

He’s taller than Keith is, and at least three times as wide. His skin is dark, milk chocolate on a hot summer’s day. Keith can see dark marks ducking into the sleeves of his hoodie, but they’re too small to make out. 

“Can I get a mocha please?” He replies. His voice is as friendly as he looks. Keith does not trust easily, but he decides that he would lay down his life for this boy at any given time. It’s stupid, but he stands by the decision. 

The kid behind the coffee machine looks up and smiles over their glasses, setting down the cup in their hand and putting their hands on their hips. 

“Hey big guy,” they say. It’s the first time Keith has really heard them speak. They sound a bit like a sparrow, but slightly gravelly at the same time. “Fuel for the big test today?” They continue. 

His beaming expression turns away from Keith and brightens even farther (which seems impossible but is, to Keith’s surprise, not). 

“Good morning Pidge,” He says, pulling a worn wallet from his bag. It’s a crocheted yellow cat, a stark contrast to his dark skin. The yarn is coming loose all over the place, but it is definitely well-loved and cared for. 

His expression turns sheepish and his eyes dart to the ceiling. “

Yeah, you know I love nothing more than exams.”

The kid next to Keith (who’s name must be Pidge) snorts in response. They turn to start making the coffee and Keith stutters out “That’ll be four dollars,” putting it into the register, trying to keep calm. 

He hands over the money and Keith puts it in the til, hands shaking. 

“And your name?” Keith asks, pulling a coffee lid from behind the cookie jar and writing a scrawled ‘M’ on it with golden sharpie. A Coran investment.

“Hunk,” the boy replies. Keith looks up quickly, eyebrow raised. 

“Pardon?” He gapes. He can hear another snort from Pidge, who’s busying themselves with cleaning the counter as they wait for the coffee to grind. 

The boy laughs. 

“It’s unusual, I know,” he replies. “Nobody gets my real name right so I settle for a nickname.” Keith continues to stare in confusion, but eventually drops it. He writes the name underneath the m and hands it to Pidge. 

“So where are from?” Hunk asks, moved over to the right of the counter, out of the way of the zero customers waiting to order. 

“Pardon?” Keith says, startled. He didn’t mention anything about himself, let alone that he wasn’t from here. 

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” Hunk explains, noticing his tone. 

_ Of course.  _

“I was born in Seoul,” He replies, busying his hands with wiping down the counter. He rarely tells people about his past, but even though it sound cliched, he feels like he can trust this guy who he just met.  And he’s desperate enough to continue wiTH any conversation starter thrown his way; it’s not like smalltalk is his forte.“I moved to Cresson when I was four.” 

Pidge raises an eyebrow. 

“Cresson?” They ask, twisting the ground coffee into the machine and starting on frothing the milk. 

“It’s in Texas,” Hunk replies, filling in for Keith. “Right?” He looks over at him. Keith can’t meet his eyes, so he just nods. 

“So what brings you to San Francisco?” Hunk asks. 

“I was given the offer to come work here as a commissioned artist,” Keith replies. He runs his finger down the countertop, feeling grainy crumbs stick to it. 

“He’s pretty good,” Pidge says, leaning their elbows on the counter next to Keith. Keith flinches slightly, startled by the sudden presence of another human being so close to him. “I’ve seen his stuff, it’s really nice.” There’s something in their voice, a speck of  _ hinting  _ at something. Keith tries to trace a line as to where this is going, but is stopped by the sun shining right in his eyes. 

Hunk beams. 

“You must be amazing if Pidge thinks so,” Hunk says, eyes bright like distant stars. He realises how dark they are, rich dark chocolate melted into his irises. “Could you design a tattoo?” 

Pidge finishes the coffee and hands it to Hunk, who’s practically bouncing in excitement. 

Keith furrows his brow involuntarily. This Hunk guy’s friendliness throws him off guard and the way he jumps from thing to thing makes his head spin. 

“I suppose it depends on what you want…” Keith mumbles, twisting his hands  in front of his chest. 

“A blue lion,” Pidge replies, making another cup of coffee. Probably for themself. Hunk nods eagerly. 

“For my left leg,” he continues. “Just below the knee.” 

 

Keith fiddles with the bottom of his shirt, thinking it over. 

He coaxes up an image of lions he’d seen in his life. Twice when he went to the zoo as a child, plenty of times in documentaries and his almost religious watching of the lion king. He imagines it; not a lion but a lioness, swirling in blue the colour of the ocean and the sky. Spinning lines weavingl ike the wind and the expression of a caring but fierce creature. 

He looks up at Hunk and smiles. 

“I think I can,” He replies. 

  
  


+++

 

 

Turned out Hunk was a regular, and very enthusiastic about art. 

 

He came in every day, asked Keith how he was going with the design; ordered a mocha. 

Keith felt a little swept off of his feet by the whole thing, like a completely unprompted hug that’s suddenly there; surrounding you in its warmth. He liked it, but sometimes it was little overbearing.

 

Despite that, he felt pretty content. A little flustered by everything, but still, at peace. 

For the first time since he entered college, he had a purpose again. He could devote his time, his energy, his entire  _ being  _ into his art. Because for once, it was for other people. Not an assessment, not for himself to let things go; but for others. 

He liked it, but at the same time, felt an emptiness that throbbed inside him. A bouncing stone in an empty cave.

 

He ignored it, pushed through. 

 

It was all he really could do. 

 

+++

 

**RED:** WEEK FOUR

 

_ “I lost my head in San Francisco _

_ Waiting for the fog to roll out _

_ But I found it in a rain cloud _

_ It was smiling down…” _

 

He remembers things from when he was very young. 

 

The images were blurry and dull with age, but they existed. Like an old film reel, that he could play at any time. 

He does it sometimes, when things get hard. When he needs his father to reassure him, when his mother’s strength he could use to help him push through. 

But sometimes it makes things worse.

 

He’s laying in bed, curled into a fetal position, scrunched up tightly. He’s fallen in on himself, punched a hole too deep to fill back up. He’s bitten away too much flesh to properly heal, and now all he can do is wait it out. 

It happens sometimes. 

 

He’s lived with the loneliness for long enough that he knows what it is when it comes. 

But he doesn't know when or even why most of the time. Especially not how long. 

So far it’s been three days. 

 

The first day was empty. He was a river that had been used dry, skin parched but unable to do anything about it. He ran on reserve power, lying in bed and using all he had just to breathe. He was fortunate that Coran didn’t bother him. He was an adult after all, and he should have sorted himself out by this stage. 

 

The second day was sad. He’d play the reels over in his head, fingers wound tightly in his hair. His sad was more like a harsher empty. A stain of blood on a blank canvas. It made his limbs heavy and his jaw slack. He almost-slept for the whole day. 

 

Today though, today was angry. 

 

It’s a quiet rage, bottled into his thin frame with enough density to make him shake. He’s trying to pace it out, run it into the ground with each stamp of his foot on the concrete. But it won’t budge. 

He’s left with the voice, louder than it had been in months, screaming through the cracks in his nails. 

 

_ Worthless.  _

_ Waste of space. _

_ Unwanted.  _

 

The anger is all for himself. 

 

He’s stayed in his room for three days, hearing the world go on around him while he tears himself apart with each jagged breath.  

And the only thing that he can think about is Lance. 

Stupid Lance who would help him through it. Who would listen, hold his hand to stop him from biting it. 

He’s ignoring his calls, not wanting to infect him with whatever is festering within him, not wanting to make the blue of his eyes any duller than he had. 

 

But he was insistent, and Keith was in no place to fight the urge to talk to him. 

 

He picks up his phone on the third ring, cradling it with his hand cupped at the side of his face. He says nothing, not willing to start the conversation. If he did, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever stop.

“Keith?” 

His heart swells a little, stretched against the walls of his ribcage. He wants to speak to Lance, he really does. 

 

But he's not sure if he can. 

 

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.  

“Are you alright?” He hears Lance asks. There’s a sound in the background that Keith thinks is a boiling kettle. 

Keith lets out a sigh, pushing back his bangs and closing his eyes. 

_ Worthless.  _

“Yeah,” Keith replies. “I’m alright.” 

There’s a pause. Keith can hear Lance’s breathing through the receiver, soft and warm. Caramel. Honey.

“You can talk to me,” Lance starts. Footsteps into another room. The smell of steam.

Keith shakes his head violently. 

_ Unwanted.  _

“I’m fine,” He says, through gritted teeth. This was exactly what he wants to avoid, this talk about how he’s feeling. It’s n airborne disease. He knows that the second he voices it, Lance will feel it too. The second-hand smoke of Keith’s problems weighing on his chest. 

“Keith-” Lance tries again. Trying to light the match to start the fire. 

“Just leave it alone, Lance!” Keith yells. He doesn’t remember getting to his feet, but he has, phone clutched tightly in his hand. He’s shaking, body quivering with a desperate rage. “Not everyone needs as much comfort as you do.” 

He goes straight for the throat with poison laced teeth. A dirty move. His hands are shaking fiercely, his eyes shut so tight he can see stars. 

“Just leave it,” keith grits out. There’s a brief pause, where Lance hesitates. But it is short-lived. 

“Like you parents left you?” Equally as toxic, Keith staggers at the blow. “I know life’s been bad for you Keith, but you need open up to people once in awhi-”

“Well at least my parents had a reason,” Keith shoots back. He’s proper angry now, nails dug deep into his palms. The smog fills his lungs, making breathing hard. He feels the room spin around him. “Why the fuck did your parents let you go so easily? Paid for your college tuition? Sounds like they couldn't  _ wait  _ to get rid of you.” Keith goes in for the final blow, sword held high. 

There’s a silence, heavy as mercury. A dripping dense venom in the air. 

“That was low Keith,” he hears, murmured through the receiver. The blade’s cut deeper than keith could ever have wanted and Lance is choking out lilac on the floor. “ _ Fuck _ you.”

_ Waste of space.  _

It’s the way he says it, like he’s doing all he can to get the words out that sucks the rage right out of him. He stands, processing what he just said. 

His sword is double-edged, and he’s ended up just as wounded. 

 

Lance hangs up, leaving Keith with nothing but the sound of beeping in his ear and the fast thumping of his heart. 

  
  


He throws his fist at the wall. 

Straight and true, a punch aimed to kill if it lands right. 

 

A crack like shattering porcelain fills the air, pain blooming blood-red from his knuckles. 

He goes again and again, smashing himself to pieces. He bruises a break, bleeds at the splintered flesh over his knuckles. 

 

_ Fuck you.  _

  
  


+++

 

**RED:** WEEK FiVE

  
  


He broke three different bones. 

 

A fracture in his wrist, a break near his pinky finger and a cracked knuckle. His right hand too, the one he was best at drawing with. 

You know, his  _ job _ . 

 

He feels so stupid now, holding his casted hand in his lap and looking straight ahead into a world where he wasn’t a useless fuckup. Where he’s a boy who doesn’t spend three days in bed and then ruin his friend’s life. A happy dream-land that becomes more and more distant with each passing moment. 

Pidge taps his arm, snapping him back from his alternate universe. He looks to them and they gesture to a line of waiting customers. He looks up. 

A girl, brown hair, green eyes. 

“What can I get for you?” 

He deadpans, doesn’t bother taking a photo of this girl in his head. Or anyone, really. He’s lost a cog in his mind and now his brain can’t function right. The film is overexposed, the chip is corrupted. 

 

Thanks to his injury, he can’t draw. 

 

Hunk says it’s not a problem, that Keith can take his time with the design. 

But he's angry about it. 

His injury is his own damn fault and he  _ hates  _ the fact that his useless anger makes other people suffer. 

Makes Lance suffer.

 

He hates that most of all. 

 

Coran tells him that it’s no problem if he can’t work. Tells him to rest up and avoid making his art to keep himself healing. 

 

Keith cannot heal without his art. 

 

It’s all he has, especially now that he’s lost Lance. 

He can’t call him, no matter how hard he tries to pick up the phone and talk to him, no matter how much he wants to. He starts to teach himself how to draw with his left hand. But it frustrates him more than it soothes him, makes him grit his teeth hard and his lips bleed viciously. 

He has an itch in him that he can’t scratch and far too much free time to think about it all. He wants to talk about it, but the only person who he's comfortable talking to hates him now. 

 

So he bleeds on his own, curled up in a ball on his bed and watching the days turn to night through his window. 

“What can I get for you?” He deadpans. He doesn’t even see the colour of the boy’s eyes who he serves, can barely remember his order. 

  
  


+++

  
  


**RED:** WEEK SIX

  
  


After a week of laying in bed and dragging himself to the cash register, Keith loses it all over again. 

 

He leaves the room that Coran gave to him, rent free and bare, walks up to the door and leaves. 

 

His only direction is “Away”. Away to a place where he doesn’t know anyone well enough to hurt them. He runs so hard and so fast that he can’t see people’s faces, that he can’t hear the last thing Lance said to him over the phone. Fast enough that his heart pumps out the poison he’d put there. 

 

His lungs heave, sucking in air and exhaling so much slower than his legs are moving, too slow for his brain which is going at a million miles an hour. He runs straight into a pole, spins away and keeps running. The pain is  welcome in this body that wants to feel nothing, the brain that hates him. He holds onto it, grasps at the burning in his calves  to keep him from doing something  _ very  _ stupid. 

But he does consider. 

 

He runs for hours, pumping his rage and self hatred straight into the concrete with each screaming footstep. 

 

He runs straight at the ocean, to the end of this city that tore him away from the little apartment just out of campus. Number seven second floor. A whole country away.

He thinks about running in, immersing himself in the icy water of the ocean. He really does. 

 

But he is not that scared little boy anymore. 

 

He is a scared and overgrown child, having a meltdown on the beach with the golden gate bridge glimmering in the distance.

He screams, he punches at the sand until his right hand throbs with agony and his head buzzes with rage. 

 

And then he breaks. 

Again and again, he shatters like glass. 

  
  


+++

 

**RED**

 

When he was four years old, he moved from South Korea to Texas.  

 

It was a huge change, a shift similar to pangea and now, in everything he had known. The people in Texas didn’t look like him, didn’t act like him. They didn’t even speak the same language.

But not once did he let himself give into the fear that threatened him. He marched over it as though it were a corpse; out of sight and only lingering in the back of his mind. He could still see it in his peripherals at times, a dreamless mask of wide-eyed sleep. 

 

His father  had left them. 

 

It was a surprise, a magic trick. He was there one minute and then gone the next, disappeared into a wisp of smoke. Like Houdini’s elephant; never given an explanation. He left everything the exact same and his mother would sit in his room on bad days, whispering things to the ghost of his memory. 

 

Another corpse, strewn over the battlefield. This one was harder to look at, something about it made him shudder, perhaps the rawness of its face, or the fresh wounds he still wore because of it. 

Still, he didn’t give in. 

 

His mother had left him. 

He hadn’t known what was happening until there was blood on the carpet and his building blocks, a real corpse on the floor. Crimson stained her lips like cherry lipstick and tears stained her cheeks. 

Her eyes were still open, her hand reaching out to him, to get him to hug her one last time. He saw her all the time now. 

But he hadn’t realised what was going on until there was another body for him to climb over. 

 

He didn’t give in until he went to live with his first family. 

 

They tore him apart. 

Three hundred dollars a week was apparently enough to auction off a child for. He was shoved into the attic like an antique, given an old sleeping bag and a single glazed window to keep him company. He couldn't even see out if it. 

 

It was so small, far too small for him to cope with. He felt trap like a rat in a steel cage. He tried to smash through the  floor, screamed his throat raw out of pure terror at being so contained. 

 

He still has scars from the blows he took that day. 

The only corpse he could never walk over was his own, “Kershaw” branded on the cheek. He gave in every time he saw it, shook like a leaf in a monsoon. 

 

Every other mangled body, crippled corpse he’d made he could step over. Their faces loomed in his memory, but they never made him cry. 

 

+

 

Keith sobbed so hard and painful that his breath came in short gasps. Harsh as lightning, ripping through his chest. He shook with each breath, sounding as though he was choking on something other than his tears. 

He ran at midnight, unable to stay awake and keep his thoughts quiet for that long. It had been four hours since and his cries came out as wheezes more than sobs. 

 

He doesn’t control his hands as they dial the number, barely has ny idea what he’s doing until the phone is pressed up against his ear and his knees are at his chest. His cheeks are raw with tears and his breaths come out wet snd heavy. 

 

Sand clings to his skin, the salt from the tears and the small grains making his face feel filled with fire.

He can hear the ocean beside him, but his eyes are filled with water so deep, he can’t see it. The dial tone rings out in his ear.

He chokes back sobs, trying his best to keep his composure but failing miserably. 

_ Ring ring.  _

_ Ring ring.  _

_ Ring ring.  _

 

The sixth dial is the one that gets an answer, a bleary “hello?” sounding through the receiver.

Keith sniffles, tries sucking in a composing breath, but ends up gasping out another sob, thunder in his lungs and havoc on his windpipe. 

“Lance,” 

He murmurs it, softer than he thought his voice could go. He can hear how frightened he is, the anxiety slipping through the cracks in him, the broken bones in his hand. 

“Keith?” 

He’s so relieved to hear Lance’s voice again. And to hear him say his name? It makes him feel a little more human than before. A little more like himself. 

“Lance I’m-” He chokes on his words, another sob bubbling out of his throat. It hits him just what he has said to him. How awful his words were. He stammers over his sentences, a  toddler learning how to walk but falling again and again. 

“ _ Fuck,  _ I’m just so so  _ sorry _ .” He whispers, voice strained over tears. He doesn’t mean to make himself sound this weak, to lay out his soul out in vulnerability like this. But he can’t stop what he’s started. 

“What’s wrong?” Lance asks. He can hear concern knitted so tightly into his voice. He doesn’t sound angry at all, just worried beyond belief.  “Keith, what’s going on?” 

Keith doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. He’s really crying; properly  _ crying.  _

He thought he was passed the worst of it, but the cries rip through him again. He wraps a hand around his mouth to stop it, but the sound slips through his fingers and spill out. Sand falling from his palms. 

He feels like the world is closing in on him. 

 

He’s just so far away from home. 

 

“I should’ve called you, should’ve said  _ sorry _ -” he stutters, fumbles, another wet sob breaking through. “I fucked up Lance, I fucked up…” 

 

“What?” He doesn’t deserve Lance being worried about him. He’s hurt him enough, the last thing he needs to pity is the sniveling pile of shit he’s become.  

“Keith it’s okay,” Lance reassures, tries to calm the thoughts he doesn’t know are there. “Are you alright? Did something happen?” 

He shakes his head, unable to get the words out passed his tears. He wraps his arm around himself, feeling the hard gauze of his cast through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

He sounds so vulnerable, so alone with his cries bouncing off the walls of a cage he’s put himself in. 

“Lance I-” He inhales, tries to compose himself enough to get the words out. “I really miss you. I miss the apartment, I miss the classes, I miss Allura and Shiro and I miss the shitty coffee you always buy-” 

He cracks, breaks all over again.

In slow motion almost, with Lance sitting in a stunned silence. 

“I just-” Another sob, a scratch of pain in his chest.. “I can’t be here anymore Lance.”

He shakes, thinking about the place he’d lived for about two months. His room with his story on the walls, the living room with portraits that  _ feel.  _

He thinks of the sky, a different blue somehow to the one in San Francisco. Keith speaks again, hushed as if speaking too loud will disturb the small waves breaking onshore. 

“I can’t stay in San Francisco.” He murmurs, but with enough finality to halt a train. 

Lance sits in silence for awhile. Keith thinks he’s lost him, for real this time. That he was done with Keith’s whining and his neediness. He’s ready to hang up and leave that chapter of his life behind. It’s not ideal but-

“Come back then,” Lance replies. He cuts Keith off halfway through a self-destructive tangent with words of reassurance. Keith feels a sudden wave of relief crashing over both of them as Lance speaks, murmurs into the microphone. 

“Come back home.” He whispers. 

Keith starts crying again, but it’s out of relief instead of fear. Lance hugs him with reassuring words and Keith accepts it.

For the first time ever, Keith buries a corpse instead of stepping over it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this hurt me as much as it hurts you.   
> the first and second song referenced is "Sunlight" by the Mowgli's. The rest is "San Francisco", also by the Mowgli's.


	10. Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is where the heart is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your support and kind words! i finally managed to finish this chapter (screams). i know exactly where i want to go from here, so expect a new chapter soon!   
> once again, thank you all for your love and support. you guys are the reason why i write day after day and i'm very grateful.   
> hope you have a nice day and that you enjoy this chapter!

_“The men up on the news, they try to tell us all that we will lose_  
_But it's so easy in this blue, where everything is good_  
_And I'll never go home again (place the call, feel it start)_  
_Favorite friend (and nothing's wrong when nothing's true)_  
_I live in a hologram with you…”_

 

 _**He’s been in this house with the voices for a long time now.** _  
_**It feels like an eternity almost, only the faint whispers to keep him company. He’d started wondering how he did it for so long before. He promises himself not to let it happen again.** _  
_**He shoots down each one of his demons with his fingers, scratches them from the house with graphite on paper.** _  
_**Bang bang bang.** _  
_**Each one falls with the hope of Keith returning home, each one screams soundlessly as he erases them.** _  
_**They will not bother him any more.** _

 

+++

 

He bounces his legs anxiously. Both at alternating times, creating a frantic rhythm.  
Keith was coming home.  
He’d been gone for a month and a half, a bit more even. And Lance was beyond excited. He hadn’t slept in two days, electricity running so frantically through his veins that he couldn’t stop, not even for a second.  
He’d lost so many people in his life, but never once had they come back.  
He had been shocked when Keith accepted his offer to come back, he had expected him to say no. So when he called him back a day later, with a twinge of hope in his voice and telling him he was coming back, Lance cried with joy. Ever since then, he’d walked around in an elated euphoria, dancing along the edges of being too exhausted to function and too happy to sleep.  
So yes, he may have been there three hours earlier than necessary, but it was better than stressing out alone in his apartment.  
He’s two hours in now, having finally caved and bought himself a sandwich, if only to calm his nerves. He checks his phone for the fifteenth time in ten minutes, reading through the same conversation.

  
From: **Angry Emo**  
  - if i don’t make it out of here  
  - i want u to take the poster under my bed  
  - it’s a photo of bigfoot  
  - don’t ask me why just except it

  
To: **Angry Emo**  
  - Ur going to b fine

  
From: **Angry Emo**  
  - debatable  
  - k  
  - were boarding now  
  - cya soon lance

  
To: **Angry Emo**  
  - See u soon Keith.

  
+++

 

  
  
**_He is quick at packing bags, has been since he was about six years old._  
His belongings are minimal, his goodbyes are brief but filled with emotion held back behind obsidian black irises.  
He waves to Pidge, gets wrapped into a hug by Hunk. A silent nod from Coran and his phone number in case he decides to ever come back; scrawled on his hand in pink sharpie.  
He might take him up on that offer someday; but not today.  
He wheels himself out on a tidal wave of goodbyes, whispering his own farewells. But he can’t bring himself to be properly sad. He’ll miss them, but he misses someone else more.  
**_He’s going home._

 

  
+++

 

  
Keith felt a little less than sober.  
His head spun whenever he stood and his eyelids dropped heavily across his vision, making it difficult to see.  
The sleeping pills were necessary, but he was starting to question the timing of them.  
His vision flickers, his eyes trying to focus on his messages to Lance, each movement of his thumb a sluggish effort. He sees splotches of blues, greens and the black block-text. He sees Lance’s name and it twists his stomach into hazy knots. He misses him so much it hurts sometimes, but the pills in his system just makes it feel cotton-candy fuzzy. Like his lungs are filled with spider webs and his heart is fluttering.

  
He looks up at a faint echoey sound. It sounds important.  
He sees people get to their feet all around, zombie adults and hyperactive candy children. He watches them as they moves towards the boarding dock and he realises he should probably follow. He sends a final few texts to Lance in a haze and gets to his feet.

  
The ceiling spins and he can feel sleep like tar around his feet; threatening to pull him under.  
Keith pulls his heavy lead limbs towards the boarding deck, showing his ticket sleepily to the zombie people at the counter. They squint at him, trying to figure out what’s wrong with him. He walks away before they can ask.  
He’s greeted by faces, numb around the edges and an almost pink everywhere he turns. He decides that this is what a dream would feel like if he lived it every day.  
He floats to his seat, buckling himself in next to a babbling candy kid (lollipop scented) before he lets sleep take him by the throat. He doesn’t fight it and he slips soundlessly into a brilliant shade of blue.

 

+++

 

_“We’re going to take you somewhere safe,”_   
_She sounds mechanical and fake. He shakes his head so fast it hurts his eyes._   
_“To a new family who will love you lots and lots.”_   
_He squeezes his eyes shut tight, stars bursting forward. He chews at his nails until the blood pools on the floor. He thinks about the words. “Family” and “Love”. He knows his mother is his family, know his father was until he left._   
_But love? He doesn’t understand._   
_It makes him nervous, makes his head hurt and his heart pound too fast._   
_“Keith, please,”_   
_He screams, loud enough to block out the train wreck in his mind, to cover up the pictures of blood on his building blocks. Wide open hazel eyes, dark black hair like tar, melting into the carpet._   
_He rips his throat raw and yanks at his hair, trying to pull the thoughts out through them/._   
_“Keith, stop.”_   
_Love? He doesn’t understand. Apparently your parents were supposed to love you. But both of his were gone. What did that mean? Who was supposed to love him then?_   
_“Keith!”_   
_He recoils at the loud noise, covers his ears with his hands to get rid of it. A hand reaches out to grab him, to hold him steady. But his skin prickles and the hand feels like a claw on his skin. He bites it, tasting blood._   
_More loud noises, more echoes of the words “love” and “family” in his ears._   
_He closes up and screams until the world goes a bright blue._

 

+++

 

  
“Excuse me,”  
A waterfall of light pours in to his pupils. He blinks once, twice; clearing his vision. A flight attendant stands next to him with a slightly vacant smile. She looks worn and tired, but still reasonably pleased to be there.  
“The plane’s landed, sir. Do you need any help getting your bags down?”  
Thoughts explode, firecrackers, in the forefront of his drugged-up brain. He squeezes his eyes shut, opening them again as he regains himself. The haze disperses as he realised that he is here.  
He is home.  
He unlatches the seat belt and stands up quick enough to give him a headspin. The flight attendant steps back calmly as Keith thanks her and hurries off the plane with his bag slung over his shoulder. His sneakers tap on the ground, a rhythm almost as fast as his heart; his hair blown back from his face as he sprints.

  
_He’s home. He’s home. He's home._

 

+++

 

Lance has never been patient.  
When he wants something, he wants it right then and there. And right now, he wants Keith back.  
He misses him so much it feels like an ache. He’s banished his ghost; banished all of them. Leaving that much more alone. The closest thing to Keith that he’s had for months was his shadow. Asking him if he wanted coffee, how he was doing. Biting at the ends of his nails, bouncing his leg while deep in thought. Letting his hair fall into his eyes on some days and on others pulling it up into a ponytail and out of his way. The squint he did when something was far away, the way his nose scrunched up when he didn't understand something. Lance misses him, misses everything about him. So it’s not so bad to be impatient to see him after all this time.  
He’d almost finished knitting a scarf just waiting at the airport terminal. It’s the only thing he can think of to calm him down, the only proper distraction. But eventually, the promise of Keith coming back fills his ears and he can’t do anything but bounce his legs nervously and pick at his nails, needles and yarn in a bag at his side.

Then he hears it.

Like rising thunder, treading loudly through the airport terminal. He stands, mouth agape, unspoken words on his tongue. He knows right away, some sort of instinct rising up in the back of his throat, blocking his words. He steps forward. Once, twice; three times. His chest swells with emotion, his stomach drops.

 

 

  
_He’s home_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
Keith makes a break for Lance. Right at him. Even before he can see him, he knows exactly where he is. Like a thread pulling at his heart, tugging him forwards with each ragged beat.  
He can see him, a shimmer of blue on the white linoleum.  
He’s panting, out of breath from running. His face is hot, his hair is a mess and he still feels a bit dizzy from the sleeping pills.

But never in his life has he felt more alive.

Lance gets to his feet, his face surprised but so very warm. So genuinely happy to see Keith running to him. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t second guess his decision.  
He runs at Lance, arms spread wide and salt tears staining his cheeks. He doesn't know why he’s crying, but he couldn't care less.  
Lance looks confused when Keith doesn’t stop, in the split second before he gets to him, Lance can do nothing but stand in shock.

And then they collide, two asteroids smashing together into a planet. A single entity.  
Home.  
They topple to the floor, Keith’s head buried in Lance’s shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck as though if he lets go, he’ll be gone again. Lance takes the fall, barely feeling the pain in his tailbone as his arms wrap around Keith’s waist, his face covered in Keith’s hair and the goofiest grin etched all over his features.  
Neither of the two had ever felt so at home than in the arms of each other, hugging the other tightly to them. Not wanting to let go.

 

 

+++

 

 

 

They lay there for a long time, but it felt like mere seconds to both of them.  
Lance inhaled the scent of something that was so unmistakably Keith, a smell that he couldn’t form into words. Keith could feel Lance’s hair, longer now, brushing against the backs of his hands. It was soft, like baby duck feathers.  
They were asked to leave by security, and the two pulled themselves apart quickly. As if realising that their position was less than a little compromising.  
The two walked outside the terminal in silence, shoulders brushing occasionally. Not out of awkwardness, not at all. Keith was watching the world around him, soaking it all back in after all this time spent away.

  
_Tree. Click._  
 _Sky. Click._  
 _Road. Click._

  
And Lance. Lance was watching Keith as he looked around, his eyes wide and snapping photos. He couldn’t help but smile fondly at him. But something nagged at him, something distant.

  
“ _Give it up_ ,” it says. He ignores it.

  
The ghosts will come back, he knows that. But he won’t have to fight them on his own.

 

+++

 

Lance’s smell clung to him the whole way back to the apartment. He hadn’t noticed at first, seeing as they walked side-by-side and then next to each other on the taxi. But when he had laid down in his room, untouched after the months he had been gone, he realised that it was there.  
He was exhausted, filled to the brim with emotion. And also NyQuil, but that was besides the point.  
He stares now at his ceiling, characters dancing along in spirals around the light fixture there. If he squints his eyes, he can see them bend and swirl as though they are a vortex. He reads them to himself, in his mother’s voice.

  
_“사랑해요 I love you,”_   
_“잘 지냈어? how are you?”_   
_“잘자 goodnight.”_   
_“주세요, 키 please, Keith”_

  
He stops there, shakes a little at the memory of the last time those words were spoken to him.  
Shaking hands reaching out to him.  
Blood on his building blocks.  
A monster taking over.  
He closes his eyes, clearing the images. Dwelling will get him nowhere.  
But he knows he can talk about it. He’s home now, the smell around him reminding of that fact. He’s safe to speak here and always will be.  
He repeats that to himself until he falls asleep, a smell like ocean spray and rain forest around him.

 

+++

 

“I know we’re not talking about _you-know-where_ but I have to ask,”

  
Keith clips back a portion of his hair falling into his eyes. For some reason, Lance has a surplus of Hello Kitty themed ones lying around the apartment and though Keith has never been overly fond of the feline, his hair is really starting to bother him. It happens sometimes. Most days, he couldn’t care less, even finds his hair over his eyes comforting. But some days he couldn't stand the feeling. Strands of black scratched his neck, his ears, his forehead and drove him up the wall. He clips back the last of his bangs and replies to Lance with a muffled “hm?” around the hair elastic in his mouth, holding it as he clips his bangs back.

  
“What happened to your hand?”

  
Keith pauses in his movement, now halfway through the whole pony-tailing process. He thinks it over, wondering what he should tell him. He continues to wrap the elastic around his dark hair as he ponders what to say, how much to give away.  
He drops his hands to his lap, meets Lance’s blue eyes with his own.

It has been a day and a half since Keith had come back. Lance hadn’t stopped being shocked about it since, his expression every time he thought Keith wasn’t looking was one of extreme disbelief. Keith had slept the first half of day one away and the second he talked into oblivion.  
Keith gave Lance a vague rendition of the things that happened in San Francisco. He mentioned the commissions, the coffee shop and the kid that liked computers and was almost always behind the coffee machine or sitting on the couch. He spoke fondly, his words orange-tinted and warm. But there was a lurking dark behind it, something that Lance didn’t dare to touch.  
Lance had spared more details than he had intended. He’d wanted to tell Keith how much he had missed him, how he hadn’t felt right after their argument. He wanted to tell him about the guilt he felt about it; about driving him away in the first place. But something about Keith, a little jumpiness or moments staring at nothing, made him think twice about sharing. He seemed to be carrying a heavy burden since he came back from you-know-where and Lance couldn’t bear to add to it.

 

Keith sighs, inspecting the bandage around his hand. He’d gotten sick of the cast the day before and ripped it off, wrapping ace bandages around it instead. It made him look more ready to punch someone than to be pitied; a look he didn’t mind in the slightest, though Lance seemed a bit concerned.  
He looks at Lance’s eyes, piercing ice blue. He tries to match the strength there, tries not to falter against the ocean behind his irises. But he’s weaker than him, and he drops his eyes back to his hands.

  
He can’t lie to him.

  
“Well after we fought I-” He cuts himself off, swallowing harshly. He can feel Lance stiffen at the mention of the fight. He knows how deep the words cut the two of them. Keith has a broken hand from it and he definitely hurt Lance more than Lance hurt him.

  
“You know how some people scream when they get angry?” He continues. His voice quivers, a branch shaking in the wind.  
Lance nods.  
“Well I punch things,” Keith murmurs, averting his eyes. “Like, really punch things.”

  
Lance closes his eyes, sucking in a breath. He sounds like he can feel the pain, the burning sensation in his wrist and knuckles. The jarring up his arm and through to lightning up his spine.

  
“Keith I’m so-”

  
Keith shakes his head quickly. “You don’t have a reason to be sorry,” he responds, leaning back in his seat. “It’s my fault.”

  
Lance sighs, leaning forward on the table so that his head rests on his folded arms. He looks up at Keith, his expression unreadable.

  
“I’m sorry about what I said,” he murmurs. Keith starts to interject, but Lance raises a freckled hand to stop him. “I didn’t mean it and I just want you to know that. You trusted me and I fucked that up. I’m sorry.”

  
Keith doesn’t say anything for awhile, just stares at the top of his coffee cup. He can almost see his reflection in the inky blackness of it. 

  
Lance rolls a coin across the table, unsure but unyielding to Keith’s silence.  
“I’m sorry too,” Keith mumbles. Lance looks up to Keith’s eyes on him, heavy and dark as a silhouetted tree.

“I took it way too far. I shouldn’t have said any of the things I did. I know your family loves you. The way you talk about them, the stories you tell…” He trails off as if looking for the words. “They love you Lance, and I don’t want you to think otherwise because I got angry at myself and took it out on you.”

  
Keith averts his eyes again, darting them quickly to his hands; now resting gently on the table. Lance reaches his own hand out, rests his palm over Keith’s. He looks up, shocked and Lance smiles gently.  
“I forgive you,” he says. He looks like a galaxy, bright with colour and incandescent blue. The smattering of freckles on his face map out constellations and Keith watches them shift just above his eyes. He smiles back, giving Lance’s hand a slight squeeze.

 

  
“I forgive you too.”

 

 

+++


	11. Lover, Please Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End of semester reds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this update took so long! i hope this update finds you all well and you enjoy it. there's less angst this chapter, despite the title. here's the song from the beginning if you're interested (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1A0G1d8Kzw).   
> thank you, as always, for your endless support.

_"I feel your sorrow_   
_Pouring out_   
_Of your skin_   
_And I don’t want to be alone_   
_If I’m tonight_   
_I’ll always be..."_

 

 

 

 

There is a woman standing on top of the table.

 

Platinum hair wrapped into dual buns, long flowing skirt and a cropped singlet. It’s not summer, but it might as well be with what she’s wearing and the rose tint to her cheeks. 

“Yes, Cass!” She points aggressively at a girl in the front of the classroom, her blue eyes wide. 

“That’s exactly what I mean!” She jumps down onto bare feet, scraping an easel across the floor. She looks panicked, but also like a woman on the verge of some deep spiritual awakening; so close to finding the secrets of the universe yet she cannot seem to express her belief. She swings around, aggressively gesturing at the easel. 

“Art is what _you_ make it,” she starts and Lance would not be the least bit surprised if she cartwheeled in the empty space before the rows of students sitting on stools. “I could stand here and teach you about shapes and the modernism movement until my words run dry. But what you do, the things that you create?” 

She shakes her head slowly, her movements calming down. Becoming rounder, almost. Keith is sure she’s looking right at him, but he could also just be paranoid. 

“That’s up to you,” she almost whispers it, yet her words echo around the classroom. “Art is only art if you make it so, otherwise, it’s meaningless.” 

She dusts her hands off, smooths down her skirt and resumes as if her outburst had never happened. 

“And that’s why I would kick Iverson’s pretentious ass if I could” She says, hands on hips and scanning her miniature audience. “He’ll teach you some bullshit about anatomy and the structure of buildings from ancient rome, but he’ll never be able to teach you the real stuff. You have to figure all of that out by yourself.”

She sighs, pulling out a canvas from a cupboard off to the left and places it on the easel. 

“He’ll tell you where the brachialis is and show you that  _ that’s  _ how you have to draw it,” She scribbles something on the canvas, pulling a pencil from one of her buns. “But it doesn’t  _ have  _ to be like that. You can draw a brachialis like a brontosaurus for all I care, as long as it’s very much  _ you. _ ” 

She starts scrawling over the canvas as she speaks, changing the oval-like shape into something new, something strange and twisting. It slowly took shape as an arm, but an arm made out of the wrapping vines of the amazon rainforest and the thick tree-trunks of a strangler figs. 

“I want you to take something that you know,” she continues, her word punctuated by the sounds of graphite over cloth. “And change it into something different. Make it more like yourself.” 

She straightens herself up, moving away from the canvas so that it’s on view for the students. There’s a smug sort of smile on her face, almost like pride but also a sort of challenge. It makes Keith feel a small twinge of fear. 

“But you have to work in pairs.” 

The class audibly groans and Allura lets out a small chuckle. She continues to speak over the sound of the students packing up their belongings, pencils clattering on the floor and rubber soles of shoes on the linoleum tiles. 

“Your work is due in two weeks, feel free to choose your own partners.” 

 

+++

 

“Well that was….” Lance trails off, bag on his back and hands on his hips. He seems sort of deep in thought, but also oddly alert. As if there’s something lingering in his vision that Keith just can’t see. His eyes are seeing on a different plane and Keith speaks up to bring him back. 

“Exciting?” He chimes in, watching his feet on the concrete. He puts one foot in front of the other, careful to avoid cracks on the ground or leaves. 

“I was going to say weird as fuck,” Lance replies. “But yeah, exciting is a word for it.” 

Keith laughs, pushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He looks over at Lance who’s staring off into some other dimension. His eyes are far away, an icy blue too close to grey for Keith to bare. He hates seeing him like that, hates having a glacier instead of a person. 

“Lance,” 

His eyes refocus, head turning to Keith. Vacant. A little “hm?” at the base of his throat that echoes as if he’s empty. 

“Are you okay?” 

Lance’s eyes flicker away from whatever he’d seen. He plasters a smile on his face and leaves it there to dry, aired out and warmed by the sun. 

“Yeah,” he replies, short and sharp. As if saying too much will give something away. “So what are we thinking of doing for the project?” 

Keith dodges another crack in the concrete, not looking up from the ground as he speaks. 

“How about an interpretation of Shiro’s true self?” Keith suggests, almost sarcastic but at the same time encouraging of the possibility. Lance laughs at that. 

“What,” he responds, his fake smile turning mischevious. “A meme-loving cryptid with too many cats?” 

“Shiro has a cat?” Keith asks, stopping in place. Lance takes a step but stops when he realises Keith isn’t following. 

“Shiro has  _ several  _ cats,” Lance replies, hands on hips. “They’re all named after the ghosts in pac-man.” 

Keith’s gapes. “Who is this man,” he murmurs. 

“Rare cryptid.” Lance responds. 

Keith snorts at that, walking to catch up with Lance again. 

“Evidently.”

 

+++

 

They sit cross-legged on the wooden floor. 

Keith was scrawling something onto a piece of paper with pen, a pencil in between his lips and three behind his ears. Lance was busy pulling out paints while Keith worked, the two of them sitting across from each other over two mugs of coffee and a paper heavy with graphite lines. 

Keith’s face is screwed up in determination, each pencil stroke seemingly meaningful. He’s so engrossed in his task that he doesn’t notice Lance’s lack of movement, his wandering focus. While Keith works, Lance watches. 

He’s started watching him a lot more since he came back. 

He also watches the shapes take form into an image on the paper. Lance had drawn the bare bones of a face and Keith had added in almost surreal details to it. What had been a ghost in the corner of his vision became a spirit of magma and flame. The eyes glistened with the glossy shine of melting wax, while the sharp cheeks blushed with the light of embers. 

Keith called out the colours as he used them, a habit they’d formed a long time ago. Sometimes though, on days like this, Keith would get so absorbed in what he was doing that he would forget all about iit. Lance didn’t mind. He could watch him then. 

He looked so focused, so zeroed in on his task like the rest of the world is background noise and he has better things to do than stop and listen to the music. 

He takes a sip from his coffee, unsure of what else to do, but unwilling to disturb Keith as he worked. 

He catches something in the corner of his eye, a dust of shadow shimmer just out of reach. 

“ _ Give it up,”  _

He notices a stray strand of hair slip into Keith’s face, hanging down over his face. He flicks his hair back a little, unwilling to stop his work but still annoyed by its presence.  

Lance reaches out without thinking, brushing Keith’s hair behind his ear. 

Keith pauses, his hand stopping over the drawing. He looks up, slightly dazed and with the lingering expression of someone deep in thought. He blinks at Lance, who’s hand is still next to his ear. 

Lance pulls his hand away quickly, smiling sheepishly. 

“Sorry,” he says, filling what had been silence with his voice. It sounded unusual in the empty room, too loud in his ears. “It just looked like it was bothering you.” 

Keith smiles back, uncertain and a little confused, but a smile. “Thanks,” he replies, ducking his head down again. 

“Are you almost finished?” Lance asks. From where he’s sitting, he can’t make out much of the drawing. But the shades are heavy all around the face which he can only take to mean it’s almost complete. Keith nods. 

“Almost done,” he says, using his thumb to smear a bit of pencil. His hand is still bandaged, fingers slightly swollen in places where it’s slipped off. Lance had tried to convince him to keep the cast on, but Keith told him that he couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted it  _ off _ , and he’d started smashing his hand against walls to scratch and itch he couldn’t get to before Lance agreed to help him take it off. 

Since then, he’d tried to get him to rest his hand. But they were art students, and Keith was stubborn. 

“Are you still okay to do the lineart?” Keith asks,tearing Lance away from the memory. Lance nods. 

“Of course,” he says. “I mean, I’m the best linearter around, aren’t I?” 

Keith snorts at that. 

“You wish,” he says. “But out of the two of us, sure.” 

Lance looks up at Keith, surprised. 

“Is that a compliment Keith?” He asks, mocking shock with a hand over his heart. Keith laughs, picking up a different pencil. 

“Maybe,” Keith replies and Lance can hear the smirk on his lips. “If it is, you know I don’t give them out lightly.” 

Lance takes the compliment rather than making a comment about how much he sucks. He’s past that with Keith. Everytime he brings it up, Keith will look at him with concern and also deep confusion. As though he genuinely doesn’t understand how Lance could feel that way about himself, as though it just doesn’t make _ sense.  _ He stretches his legs out across the floor, leaning back against the low coffee table. 

“You’re taking too long,” he whines, stretching out his arms. “I want to seeeeeeee.” 

I’m almost done!” Keith laughs, voice raised a little in exasperation. He smudges something again, batting Lance’s hands away as he tries to grab him to get his attention. “You are such a seven year-old, jesus.” 

He pulls up the paper and thrusts it at Lance, his hair ruffled and a smile in his eyes; an expression halfway between annoyance and affection. 

“There!” he shouts as Lance takes it and looks at the work of art in his hands. 

He gasps a little, unable to help the sound. The smug smile on his face sinks, his whole expression shifting to wonder. 

A girl stares back at him from the page, ageless and powerful. Her eyes are a rippling pool of magma, pulsing with life and a deep, unhindered rage. Molten rock and lava drips from her scalp as hair, flames sprouting forth in the places where it touches her skin. Her mouth is slightly open and a plume of smoke filters out, pooling at the top of the page in its varying greys. He can almost feel the heat coming off of it, her expression filled with a force that almost winds him. 

Keith has added hands to the initial sketch, the girl’s judging by the shade in her hands. They glow as her skin does, with the faltering pulse of an extinguished flame, an ember. But in her hands, plants sprout to life, young saplings crawling up her fingers and stretching as far as her wrists in a desperate bid for life. 

Lance says nothing for a moment. He’s speechless, staring at what his drawing has become. Keith’s brow knots in concern, instantly worried that Lance doesn’t like it, immediately sure that it’s awful. His confidence, the slight humour in him dissipates for a moment before Lance looks up slowly from the paper in his hands, mouth wide. 

“Keith,” he says, slowly. His lips can’t seem to find the words, and when they do there’s a slight shake to his voice. Keith just stares, defensive almost. “This is fucking amazing. Why don’t you draw people more? This is the best thing I’ve ever seen next to my baby sister kissing a chicken on the butt, which is pretty adorable by the way.” 

Keith’s face changes from fear to a smile as wide as the moon and then into embarrassment in mere seconds. 

“I, uh....” He trails off, looking away, his left hand scratching at his right, nails creeping beneath the bandages. He’s thinking back to the exhibition, the boy in each and every single one of his works. The doodles during the bad days in San Francisco and the sketchbook underneath his bed. He didn’t draw people, he drew a person. Over and over again. Thinking about it makes him feel awkward and nervous, a buzzing that makes his hands shake and his head buzz, begging him to scratch an itch he didn’t know was there. 

He sits, paralysed for a moment with an “uh” extended in the back of his throat and a red hue to his cheeks. 

Lance reaches out to him, takes his left hand away from the scabs on his right, drawing him away from his self-destruction. There’s fresh blood under his nails, but Lance doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t pull his hand away when Keith stops shaking, doesn’t make any effort to move, but just holds him there. He’s grounded, Lance’s hand wrapped around his like the bandage around his broken bones. Helping him heal, helping him to open up and talk, despite how it makes his stomach drop. Keith looks away, at a pencil on the floor with pink hyacinths in his cheeks. 

“I do sometimes,” Keith mumbles, not meeting Lance’s eyes. “They’re just… a bit more personal.” 

“Well,” Lance says, taking his hand from Keith’s and picking up the artwork again. “This one is absolutely incredible. I can’t believe you turned my shitty sketch into this. We’re going to blow Allura out of the  _ water _ .” 

Keith smiles, shifting positions by crossing his legs. 

“Debatable,” Keith replies, but the smile is still there. He nudges Lance with his shoulder to drag his attention away from the paper, finding himself slightly embarrassed by his focus on it. “Now you have to do the lines.” He says. 

Lance nudges him back, picking a felt pen off the ground. 

“Yeah yeah,” He mocks playfully. “Whatever you say mullet-head.” 

 

+++

 

Keith had never been one for physical contact.

When his mother had tried to comfort him with cuddles and warm arms, he cried and kicked against her. When his father had grabbed him from running in front of a car, he’d hit him hard enough to wind him and almost gotten them both killed beneath a tire of a minivan. 

It had only gotten worse when his home shifted so much, when the faces of people morphed so often that he couldn’t trust anyone enough to even look them in the eye; let alone accept a hug. And after house Number One, he’d been a little too shaken and a little too bruised to ever try hugging again. 

But he was twenty-one now. 

It had  taken him a long time, but he’d learnt to trust touch again. Even after bad days in bathrooms and the ever-present recording of a looming figure over him playing on loop in his mind’s eye; he’s started not just being  _ okay _ with physicality, but seeking it out. 

When Lance was having a bad day, he’d hold him even before the nightmares happened. Keith liked to think that on some nights he helped ward them off. That his hushed whispers stopped him from shaking and his presence fought back anything that tried to hurt him. 

He’s learned to reach out at times, doesn’t wince if Shiro pats his shoulder or Allura ruffles his hair. He’s started to learn that physicality can be love, not just pain. 

He stopped pushing Lance away as often when the world became too much and Lance moved to protect him from it, stopped keeping so many things to himself. 

He opened up, forgave the world for some of the things it had done to him. Not all of them. It was impossible to forgive some of the scars on his body and the endless memories in his head. But some things, he could forgive. 

 

The days before the semester ends passes in snapshots, little clips of life preserved in the film of his brain. 

Some things he almost forgets about, their presence in his life becoming such a normality that he barely even notices them. Like Lance deciding to buy slightly less shitty coffee after starting up with some work at a convenience store three blocks down, battling at six in the morning to be heard over the sound of construction, spending more time in Lance’s room than his own. 

Pieces of a puzzle that weren’t there from the beginning, but becoming so accustomed to their presence that they might as well have been. 

Then there were specific things, one-time occurrences or pivotal points. Keith played some of them back to himself on the nights he’d lay awake on his own. His skin too sensitive to even touch his sheets, let alone someone else’s and his mind wide awake. 

Allura seeing the piece that Lance had called “hot head” and complimented them both extravagantly, suggesting they collaborate  more often. 

The discovery of a passage way leading up onto the roof of their apartment building where Keith spent a lot of his time, staring onto the streets. Lance would join him sometimes, not saying anything but passing him a cup of coffee and staring  out into the skyline.

A neighbourhood cat taking partial residence in the stairwell, becoming fatter with the affection of all  of the tenants and being called by at least three different names. Keith and Lance called her Mauve. 

An ominous cactus appearing in the front lawn only to disappear the next day with only a slight hole in the soil as evidence that it was even there. Slight rumours spread around the building bout where it came from, but they died quickly. 

There was a storm so harsh it knocked over a tree and made Keith hide underneath his covers , shuddering until Lance coaxed him out and into his arms, hushing him with tunes going nowhere and a blanket over his shoulders. 

Lance sleepwalking halfway down the street until Keith heard him going down the stairs and ran after him, frantic and almost crying with relief when he found his silhouette on the side of the road. Lance was dazed at first but then smiled when he realised Keith was there, guiding him back home. 

And then, finally, the end of semester. 

Lance gets a part-time job to get him through the next semester, his savings running lower than ever. Keith takes up a few commissions to keep himself afloat. Between assignments and their work schedules, the two only seem to relax at two in the morning, both of them splayed out on the couch, legs tangled or heads resting on the the other. Sometimes Keith is filling out a commission, sometimes Lance vents about his work.But most of the time, the hours between two and five in the morning are their time, time that neither is willing to waste on anything else. 

Lance starts up a game of twenty questions one day that turns into at least five hundred questions, nearing six-hundred at this point. 

Lance’s head rests on Keith’s shoulder, both of their eyes reflecting the light of the TV back at them in a vacant stupor. Their legs are tangled, resting on the coffee table next to a few too many empty mugs. Lance makes a note to wash them when his eyelids aren’t threatening to shut and his comfort levels are slightly lower than they are now, Lance’s head resting against his. 

“Your turn,” Lance mumbles, only moving his jaw to speak. Fatigue creeps up his limbs, turning his flesh into thick stone and rendering him a statue, incapable of movement other than slight breaths. Keith sighs, dropping his head to rest on Lance’s shoulder and feeling his hair on the back of his ear. 

“Favourite song?” Keith asks, his words slightly slurred from exhaustion. Not noticeably so, but enough to remind Keith of how late it is. 

“Tie between Crazy in Love and Bang Bang,” Lance replies quickly, lifting up a hand to count the songs on his fingers. “Also, I will literally punch anyone who says that Nicki Minaj’s Pinkprint album sucks and Katy Perry is my spirit animal.” 

Keith blinks. 

“I have no idea what you just said,” He mumbles, reading out a  phone number for carpets in his head, labelled in yellow font on the TV. Lance gasps, turning his head enough to make Keith look up in surprise. 

“Tell me you at least know who Beyonce is.” 

Keith makes a sound similar to a prolonged “ehhhhh” and Lance gasps again.  He doesn’t move other than that though, and Keith takes that as a good sign. 

“You have to listen to Lemonade with me tomorrow,” Lance says. “That’s a Beyonce album. The newest one.”  Keith nods and he and Lance’s hair makes a sound as they brush together, his head relaxing back into Lance’s shoulder.

 

“Not like I have anything better to do,” Keith replies. 

“So what music do you like then?” Lance asks. Keith shrugs a little. 

“I used to listen to a lot of stuff like Evanescence and MCR and all that,” he says. “But I think I’ve become a little less ‘emo’ and it’s mostly things like Arctic Monkeys and The Neighbourhood now.” 

Lance can’t help but laugh at that. Keith can feel it buzz through his own chest as though he’s the one laughing. 

“I had no idea you were an edgelord,” Lance says, giving Keith a poke on the cheek. Keith chuckles and pushes his hand away. 

“I’m not an edgelord!” He laughs then pauses, thinking about it. “Well, not anymore at least.” 

Lance  laughs harder, his arm wrapping around his stomach to hold in the giggles. Keith pushes him off, sitting to the side of the couch with his arms crossed in mock anger. 

“Well it’s your turn now so ha,” Keith says, sticking out his tongue and kicking Lance playfully in the ribs. Lance laughs for only a few more moments before he finally composes himself, crossing his arms in thought. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, sitting up. He closes his eyes as if focusing on the question he has, preparing himself for it. “So there are three birds. One is a pigeon missing its leg and with really gross sort of grey feathers, ones a seagull that has these really red eyes and an aura that’s really unsettling and the last one you just sort of assumed is a bird. It’s got four legs, a beak and two wings as well as three eyes. You have to take one of these home and care for it. Which one do you pick?” 

Keith opens his mouth in response. Shuts it, thinking about the question he’d just been asked. 

“First of all,” he says, sitting up a little on the sofa. “What the fuck Lance. Second of all, the pigeon.” 

Lance grins, spreading his legs out so his feet rest on Keith’s lap. His legs are ridiculously long, consisting of approximately 90% of his body and so Keith is happy to share the space with them, albeit a little intrusive. 

“Your turn,” Lance says, Keith thinks about it for a moment.

“What was your favourite colour?”

“Blue,” Lance replies quickly. “Like the ocean, the sky, the rain. I miss it the most.”

Keith looks down at his hands, pen stained and calloused. Blue, the same as Lance’s eyes. He looks up a little, but doesn’t move his head. 

“Your eyes are blue,” Keithe replies, unsure of what else to say. Lance turns around and smiles at him. A little weakly, but genuine.

“I remember,” Lance says, something whimsical in his tone. “Like a cobalt blue, right?”

“Well sometimes,” Keith replies, leaning his head back onto the couch. “Sometimes they’re really icy and a bit cold. A really bright sort of blue. Sometime they’re like the ocean, really deep and dark and even slightly green. And then sometimes I swear they’re purple, but I look again and they’re that cobalt colour. A really in-your-face kind of blue.” He leaves it there, his voice dying on his throat with fatigue. He tilts his head toward Lance, gauging his reaction. 

Lance laughs a little at that, a chuckle that sounds a little deflated. A balloon running low on helium. 

“You should write a book some day Keith,” Lance murmurs, stretching his arms over his head. Keith can hear his joints pop. 

“Yeah and then become president,” Keith retorts. 

“Anything’s possible,” Lance chimes. They sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the hum of TV filling the spaces between them. “What’s your favourite colour?” Lance asks. Keith thinks about it for a moment. He wants to say one thing, but something in him stops his vocal chords from stringing together the words. 

“That really deep red that you get from a lot of blood,” Keith says instead, his words wobbling over each other. “When it’s all pooled up and it almost looks black.” 

Lance laughs again. Keith looks up, confused. 

“You fucking edgelord!” He laughs, Keith punches his leg lightly. 

“Oh shut up, mr ‘my favourite colour is the colour of my own eyes’,” Keith mocks, making a crude impression of Lance’s voice. 

“It’s a memorable colour!” Lance shouts between laughs. “Leave a poor colourblind kid alone.” 

“Leave an emo kid alone,” 

“So you admit you’re an emo!” 

Keith groans, but the smile on his face is wide. 

“Oh my Goooddd,” he groans, trying to suppress a smile. “I’m done with this conversation. It’s your turn.” 

Lance immediately switches from laughing to seriousness and Keith lifts his shead up again in concern. 

“So this pigeon,” he starts, hands together as if in prayer, but pointing towards Keith. They stare at each other for a moment, Keith with a look of confusion and slight guilt over something he may have done and Lance staring at him with extreme seriousness. Then they both crack, falling into laughs again. 

“What is with you and this pigeon?” Keith snorts between words. 

“It’s an important question!” Lance shouts defensively. “Now let me finish-” 

“You started laughing fir-” 

“Sh!” Lance tries to suppress a smile around a harsh shush. He regains his composure and looks Keith in the eyes again. “So this pigeon. You are bound to it now, though you’re not sure how you know this. It starts to shed it’s feathers and grey goo seeps out everywhere. It doesn’t seem to ever stop. You somehow know that it will never  _ ever  _ stop. What do you do?” 

“Okay first off,” Keith says, trying to suppress a grin. “What the fuck Lance. Second off, I’d sell it as some sort of bonding agent to manufacturers cheaply. Easy money.” 

Lance laughs again and in his exhaustion it sounds like church bells and burnt caramel, so soft and warm. He moves his head to the side to watch Lance as he laughs, each freckle on his cheek bones shining like shooting stars. Lance opens his eyes, smiles loosely at Keith. The kind of smile you only see at three in the morning when inhibitions are no longer a thing and the world seems very far away. 

“That is the best possible answer you could have given,” Lance replies, eyes not leaving Keith’s. 

He looks at them, really looks. 

“And that is the worst possible question you could have asked,” Keith replies. 

Half an hour later, both of them lay asleep on the couch. Curled up beside each other, with their heads facing inwards. Finding Nemo plays on the TV and the hum of noise acts as a lullabye to keep the two boys asleep. 

Lance does not have nightmares that night. 

And Keith has never slept better. 


	12. Hoops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have, three, new voice messages.

_"Blood stains make confusing patterns_   
_That lead me to you_   
_Hoops and everything_   
_Get back never get back too soon..."_

 

_ He’s being dragged, cold water sucking him out into its depths. Salt fills his nose, his eyes, his ears. He screams for help but any sound is lost to the tide, drowned out by the wrath of the ocean.  _

_ His breath slips away, his eyes seeing nothing but blue.  _

 

_ Blue.  _

 

+++

 

 

Lance wakes up with a gasp. His lungs heave with the power of the tide leaving his ribcage, the cold current flushing away. His eyes are blown wide in panic, hands shaking and pressed tightly to his rapidly beating heart. 

 

He takes in a few deep breaths, taking the room in. Drawings on the wall, a window opposite to his bed, a few scattered shirts and a bedside table covered in all manner of cosmetics. 

 

_ In and out,  _ he reminds himself.  _ In and out. _

 

His senses calm, narrowing onto things other than raw terror; softening into thee bleariness of waking. 

He notices breathing coming from beside him and he turns his head quickly to see Keith, laying there fast asleep. 

 

He smiles softly at seeing him there, the edges on his breath going round at the sight. Though he can’t remember when Keith came in, or what the delirious nightmare that summoned him was about, he is still grateful. Always would be, probably. Grateful for Keith's presence in his life and everything he’d ever done for him. 

He slips out of bed quietly, barely moving the quilt (that Keith tends to hog) and escaping into the cold of the winter’s morning. Lance tiptoes out of the room so as to not wake up Keith, though it’s unlikely. Some form of nuclear war could occur and Keith would sleep right through it. 

 

He goes to check his phone in the living room, stretching out his long limbs and hearing several cracks as he does so. The bleariness of sleep still clings to him, but he shakes it off as best he can. 

 

_ [(7) Missed Call(s)]  _

 

He squints at the screen, confused. 

 

_ [(3) New Voice Message(s)] _

 

 

He unlocks his phone, opening up the phone app and calling for his voicemail. 

 

A mechanical beep sounds, rattling enough to make his head hurt a little. He rubs the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. A cup of coffee might be due soon. 

 

_ “You have, three, new voice messages,”  _ the artificial female voice on the other end of the line says. Lance sits down on the couch, propping his feet up on the low coffee table to listen. 

“ _ New voice message, received at, two fifty-four am.”  _

_ “Beep!”  _

 

“What no-” 

“Get off the-” 

“Shi-” 

“Is that a-” 

 

The rest of the message is just static. Lance looks at his phone in confusion. 

 

“ _ Message ended. Press 1 to save this message. Press 2 to delete this message.  Press three to continue to the next mess-”  _ He snaps back to life with the sound of a voice in his ears again. He presses three on his dialpad and waits for the voice to return. 

 

“ _ New voice message, received at three, thirteen, am.”  _

_ “Beep!”  _

 

“I told you it was useless calling him at this hour,” 

Lance starts, recognising the voice. He sits up straight, suddenly lightning focused. 

“It’s almost three in the morning!” The voice says, annoyed. “I don’t care about your  _ gut  _ feelings, okay? Maybe you have gastro again. Yeah I know that was one time-” 

The voice cuts out suddenly. 

“Oh shit, we’re on voicemail. This is going to be weird to listen to, sorry.” 

The voice is muffled by the sound of the phone shifting positions. 

“Hi Lance,” the voice continues. Lance jolts a little at hearing the sound of his own name on an almost-stranger’s voice. The click-clack of computer keys sounds slightly into the receiver creating a rhythm to the voice “If you get this message call me ba-” 

The message cuts out with a beep. 

 

“ _ Message ended. Press 1 to save this message. Press 2 to delete this message.  Press three to continue to the next mess-”  _

Lance hurriedly presses three on the dialpad, eager to hear the voice again. He recognises it, but it’s like a song heard in childhood. A memory, but not a firm or concrete one. 

 

“ _ Message received at three, twenty eight, am.”   _

 

“I cannot believe you’re calling him again,” He hears faintly, the same voice as before. “He’s probably asleep, like a normal person.” 

“I’ve been waiting several months for this Pidge, now shut up.” A different voice, one he definitely recognises. His mouth falls open slightly at hearing it, shock resonating heavily in his body. 

“Lance hi.” the voice says. Just as blunt and kind as he remembers it. It hasn't been that long, but it feels like an eternity since he heard that voice in his ears. 

“Look Lance, I’m so sorry about never answering your calls or replying to your messages or anything,” he can hear his friend sigh on the other side of the call. He can imagine his face, the exact tired and sad expression he would be making. “I don’t have a good explanation for you, but I’ll try my best, okay? Please call back if you get this. I-” 

 

The voicemail cuts out again and Lance listens to the artificial voice, it’s fake enthusiasm grating on his nerves. He sits there, immobile with surprise and elation. 

A hand sits clasped over his mouth and he can feel tears slipping gently across his cheeks. Salt and freckles over his skin, slipping through his fingers. 

 

 

“Lance are you okay?” 

 

 

He turns around quickly, hand dropping from his mouth and ocean eyes locking on the figure in the doorway. 

 

Keith stands there, looking at him with concern veiled loosely by fatigue. His eyes trace circles over Lance’s face, searching for something there. Lance sniffs, pushing a smile onto his face. It’s not fake, but it’s forced on his lips. 

“Yeah I’m fine,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes, wiping the tears away. Keith looks him over again, not buying it. He shuffles over to the couch, sitting beside him. His body slumps into the cushions of the couch, sleep still clinging to him. He blinks, bringing his focus to Lance’s face with difficulty. 

“Lance you’re crying,” Keith deadpans, stating it as more of an observation than the accusation Lance expected. “What’s wrong?” He asks, tilting his head. He blinks again and Lance can see his eyes desperately trying to focus through his fatigue. Maybe he should take Keith to the optometrist some day. 

 

Lance laughs, wiping the tears from his freckled cheeks. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he chuckles. “Everything is really good actually I…” 

He trails off, leaning back onto the couch. 

Keith slides his head onto Lance’s shoulder, no longer able to keep himself upright. 

 

Not only is Keith a heavy sleeper, it also takes him at least an hour to wake up properly. 

 

“Do you want coffee?” Lance offers. He feels Keith’s hair shift on his neck as he shakes his head. 

 

“I just want to lay here for awhile,” He drawls sleepily. “So why were you crying then?” 

Lance sighs, leaning his head on Keith’s. 

 

“You know my old roommate?” He asks, fiddling with a thread loose on the couch. 

 

“Yeah?” Keith replies and Lance can feel the vibration of his voice in his teeth. “You’ve talked about him a few times.” 

 

“Well he called me,” Lance says. “For the first time in months.” 

Keith gasps a little. 

 

“That’s great Lance,” he says. “What’d he say?” 

 

Lance laughs. “Not a lot,” he replies. “It was just a voicemail, he told me to call him back so he could explain everything.” 

 

“I’m happy for you,” Keith replies. He sits up, Lance turning to face him in surprise. They lock eyes and Keith searches his face expectantly. “Why haven’t you called him back?” 

 

Lance looks down at his hands quickly, avoiding Keith’s gaze. 

 

“N-no reason,” he mumbles. 

 

“ _ Lance, _ ” Keith presses as Lance avoids his eyes. 

 

“I’m scared,” Lance replies, quickly and in a rushed way. As though the words won't be held back by his teeth, as though they operate of their own free will. Lance feels like that a lot around Keith. He draws the words, the secrets, right out of him. 

 

He wrings his hands nervously. 

“It’s been a really long time,” Lance explains. “He just kind of stopped talking to me, never said why.He said he would explain but what if, what if the explanation isn’t good enough?” 

Lance sighs, draws in a shaky breath. 

“It’s sort of nice being uncertain as to why. He left me with nothing and it’s good not to know, because then it could be anything.” 

 

Lance feels hands on his face, slightly cold and smooth on his cheeks. He looks up in surprise, meeting Keith’s eyes. Dark, like the soil if the earth and almost as powerful. 

 

“Lance,” he says, firmly despite the slight shake in his hands. “Call him back. There are some things you  _ need  _ to know for sure. It might hurt, but you can only avoid it for so long.” 

 

Lance smiles. “Thanks Keith,” he replies. “Now can you let go of my face? I can’t move.” 

Keith hastily pulls his hands away from Lance, ducking his head to break eye contact. 

Lance picks up his phone, staring at the missed calls screen in silence. 

Keith looks up just as Lance does, his blue eyes wide with fear. Keith smiles, puts a hand on his shoulder. He nods and Lance turns back to the phone. 

“Let’s go down swinging,” he says, pressing the unnamed number on his phone and holding it up to his ear. 

 

 

 

_ Ring, ring.  _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ Ring, ring.  _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ Ring, ring.  _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ Ring, ring.  _

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hello?” 

 

It's the other voice. The one Lance recognises but not well enough for a face or name. He jolts a little at the surprise of hearing a voice after the dialtone. 

“Hi-” his voice gives under his nerves. He clears his throat. “Um, this is Lance? You called me earlier?” 

There's silence for a moment. Keith looks at him with a small twinge of concern. 

“Oh shit, hi!” the voice says, breaking the silence. “Sorry, the reception here is ass, takes so long to do anything.” 

 

Lance chuckles nervously. The other person’s voice shifts in and out as they speak, the signal turning the voice to choppy static. 

 

“Oh fuck, forgot to introduce myself,” the voice says. “We’ve met before, but it was a long time ago. I’m Pidge but you would’ve known me as Katie back in the day.” 

There’s a pause as Lance turns the name over in his head. 

“Katie Holt?” Lance asks, shocked. 

“Yep,” the voice says. “But yeah, I go by Pidge now. They them pronouns and all that.” 

“Oh,” Lance replies. “Sorry I-” 

“Hey no worries,” Pidge replies, cutting him off. “How’ve you been over the what, last ten years?” 

Lance laughs, giving Keith a thumbs up. Keith brightens, giving him a thumbs up back. 

“A bit good, a bit bad,” Lance replies. “You know, life and all that. What about you? How’s being a child prodigy?” 

Pidge laughs. 

“I’m doing my masters in computer engineering,” they reply. “It’s hard, which is good, but also exhausting.” 

Lance whistles under his breath at the statement. 

“Wow that’s amazing K-” he cuts himself off, remembering. “Pidge.” he corrects himself. “Sorry”

“Don’t sweat,” they reply. “Hey so, let’s catch up some other time because, frankly, I didn't actually call just to ask how you were doing.” 

“Not surprising,” Lance replies with a small laugh. 

“Funny,” Pidge says. Lance can hear the click of a keyboard faintly over the receiver. 

Classic. 

“Hunk really wanted to talk to you but he lost his phone and all of his contacts ages ago. So I had to do some bullshit and dig it out of the interwebs just so you two could have a chat.” Pidge continues nonchalantly. 

“Wow thanks,” Lance replies. 

“No problem kid,” Pidge deadpans. “Anyways, he’s awake now so I’m going to pass you over to him.” 

“Alright,” Lance says, feeling his throat tighten with nervousness once again. The previous euphoria of reconnecting with an old friend vanishes. 

“Thanks again Pidge.” Lance says over the lump in his throat. 

“Anytime,” They say. Their voice goes slightly quieter as they yell away from the receiver. “HUNK, IT’S LANCE. HE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU.” 

 

Keith looks at him quizzically, weighing something up in his head, his expression confused and concerned. Lance gives him a shaky smile as he hears that familiar voice. In his ear, like a whisper of a past lullabye. 

 

Like a song not heard in years. 

 

 

“Lance,” he hears, soft like a whisper. 

He gulps down the fear, the panic and the worry that’s clogged his arteries and heavied his lungs. He pushes it down, feeling Keith’s hand slip into his for support as his breaths come faster and his eyes widen in fear He grounds himself with the feeling and smiles slightly, Keith giving his hand a comforting squeeze. 

 

After months of silence, Lance speaks. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hi Hunk, been awhile, huh?” 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! thank you all so much for your patience, your support and your interest. i love each and every one of you so much. this fic, as you may or may not have guessed, is on the "resolution" end of the narrative.   
> again, thank you all and i hope that you continue to enjoy this silly little drabble of mine ;p


	13. Changing Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunk and Lance finally connect after months of being apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finished it!   
> i apologise once again for the delay, next one should be a lot faster.   
> a huge thank you once again to everyone for being the loveliest readers! you all never fail to brighten my day.   
> fun news! a lovely friend (superlemonpie666 on tumblr and superLemonPie here on ao3) has very kindly translated the fic into spanish! i cried a little seeing this, honestly. here's the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12123792/chapters/27496401   
> thank you, as always, for your continued support!

 

_ "Chemicals, they rush, and I can't speak  _

_ But still I see...  _

_ The world changing colors  _

_ Before my very eyes  _

_ The world changing colors  _

_ Before my very eyes..." _

 

 

 

His breath comes in cyclones, whirlwind energies that rip through his chest and his lungs. His heart beats fast, rumbling in his ribcage like an earthquake. 

 

He holds onto Keith for dear life, his knuckles pearly white with the strength of his grip. Keith’s hand is warm as the sun in between his fingers and Lance draws from the warmth, from his light, to fuel the next words he speaks. 

Keith soldiers through it, giving Lance a small smile every time he turns to him nervously and every time Keith’s lips turn upwards, Lance feels electric. 

 

There’s silence on the line, slight crackling over the connection as though the space between them is charged. As though a single fraying wire connects them and is sparking at the sudden contact between the two. A current moving through it that hasn't in months. 

Lance feels the earth come out from underneath him, his stomach falling into a dark pit, static making his hair stand on end. 

 

“Lance,” he hears. The voice familiar but foreign all at once. Marble and granite, hot cocoa and brandy snaps. The voice that is like a home to him. 

And he had forgotten just how homesick he was. 

 

“Yeah that’s me,” He mumbles, voice quivering. His vocal chords spark, crackle. “How you been buddy?” 

 

Keith runs a thumb over the back of Lance’s hand, comforting him the best he can. Lance’s grip doesn't loosen despite the small smile on his face as his thin frame trembles. The warmth from Keith’s hand keeps him grounded though, keeps the shaking manageable. He trembles, feels his body shaking with lightning. 

 

“Lance I’m so sorry,” 

The voice cracks, wobbles and trips over itself. The brandy in his voice spills and the wire connecting them frays a little more. Lance hears his best friend (he  _ is  _ still his best friend, right?) breaking over the line. His voice crackles like static and Lance can imagine the way he’s probably ducking his head, wiping his hair back from his face with a hand. 

Lance wants to reach out and hug him as he did when his mother was sent to hospital, when scholarship after scholarship was denied, when the world was too much for even his broad shoulders. To tell him that it’s okay. 

  
  


But there’s just so much distance between them. 

  
  


“It’s okay,” Lance murmurs. What else can he say? The wire frays again. The electricity sparks up and catches fire in Hunk’s voice. 

He butts in suddenly. 

“No Lance,” He says sharply. He crackles, the shock of his voice like this shooting through Lance like lightning. He holds Keith’s hand tighter, surprised. Keith gasps a little, but holds on to Lance. 

Hunk never speaks with this amount of conviction, this certainty, unless he  _ knows.  _

He barrels forward and the wire connecting them stops fraying. 

“I left you. With no reason, no explanation.” He says, hushed but powerful. Like the raw power of the Grand Canyon, it’s rocky surfaces strong but silent.  “I bottled myself up because I thought I deserved it. I kept myself locked away and tried so hard to make everyone hate me. I’m so sorry for making you suffer because of my own problems.”His voice breaks a little, crumbles under a heavy weight he has been holding. Lance squeezes Keith’s hand a little tighter, feeling tears in his own eyes again, strengthening himself for what he’s about to do. 

“Hunk,” Lance almost whispers the name. A light sea breeze. “I was never mad to begin with. I was scared, sure. I was upset, definitely. But you’re my best friend. And I forgive you.”

 

Lance takes the burden, shoulders some of the weight for his friend. The wire between them stops fraying, starts repairing itself after months of being left. 

 

Hunk starts sobbing.

  
  


“I’m so sorry,” He cries between each hiccup. “I’m so sorry Lance.” 

 

Lance wipes his eyes with the back of his free hand, laughing a little. 

“It’s okay big guy,” he replies. “I told you, it’s all just water under the bridge.” 

Lance sees Keith’s face brighten out of the corner of his eye. Lance smiles at him and Keith squeezes his hand in encouragement. He mouths “good?”, his face filled with a twinge of hope. When Lance nods, Keith smiles even wider. 

 

Lance waits for the worst of Hunk’s sobbing to ebb away, telling him that it’s okay whenever he’s quiet enough to be heard. When Hunk’s cries fall instead into teary sniffles, Lance speaks up again. 

 

“So what have you been up to for the past few months?” Lance asks, casually. As though the past few months had almost never happened. He’s leaning against Keith now and the other boy can make out some of the conversation happening over the crackle of the connection. 

 

“Well I’m in an apprenticeship now,” Hunk replies, voice wet with tears, but drying in the warm sun of forgiveness. He clears his throat, trying again. “There's this really nice lady who overheard me talking about bio-engineering with Pidge in this coffee shop we go to. She came up, started asking questions about the two of us and slipped me her card.” 

Lance gasps. 

“Hunk that’s fucking amazing!” 

“Right?” Hunk chimes in enthusiastically. “Her name is Dr Ryner and she’s so incredible. She had this really clever idea of using magnetised iron oxide nanoparticles during surgery due to its non toxic values and biocompatibility instead of cobalt which had caused some cases of blood poisoning and disfigurement of…” 

Hunk trails off and pauses for a moment. 

“I was nerding wasn't I?” Hunk says sheepishly. 

“Definitely.” Lance chuckles and Keith smiles a little. “But honestly, I’m so happy for you. It sounds right up your alley.” 

“Thanks Lance,” Hunk replies. Barely missing a beat, he immediately brings the topic back to Lance “How’s your art? I haven't seen any of it in so long, I bet you’ve improved a  _ ton.”  _

“I highly doubt that,” Lance says through a slight laugh. 

Keith chimes in suddenly, leaning across Lance and grabbing his phone. 

“He’s amazing and everything he draws is gorgeous,” Keith half-yells into the receiver. “You should see the shades he gets with just one colour, it’s incredible.” 

Lance snatches the phone back from Keith, giving him a light shove. Keith grins smugly. 

“Who was that?” Hunk asks. 

“That’s Keith,” Lance says, sticking his tongue out at Keith who grins back. “He’s my roommate and a huge DORK.” 

He directs the last bit at Keith who laughs. 

“Wait,” Hunk mumbles and Lance can hear him changing the ear his phone was on top of. “Keith Kogane? Really dark hair that looks like a mullet, bit shy?” 

Lance stops hitting Keith away suddenly. Keith pauses, surprised. 

 

Only one person not from the eighties has a mullet. 

 

“Wait how do you know him?” Lance asks. 

Keith, who had been staring at Lance with a look of slight confusion shifts to slight anxiety. 

“He worked at the cafe Pidge and I went to,” Hunk replies. “Made a mean mocha and I think Coran helped him get commissions. His art was amazing, I got a tattoo he made.”

 

Lance turns slowly back to Keith. 

“One second,” he says to Hunk, lowering his phone from his ear. Keith looks down at his hands hurriedly, unable to meet the blue of Lance’s eyes: He picks at a scab on the back of his hand, waits a few moments. Nervously, he looks back up with caution, their eyes meeting in a flurry of sparks. 

 

Keith suddenly feels very afraid that he’s messed something up. He shakes a little as Lance stares at him, his blue eyes calculating. 

 

“You drew Hunk a tattoo?” Lance asks after a while. It doesn’t come out so much as a question but rather, a dumbfounded statement.

Keith swallows back some of his mounting panic. 

“Y-yeah,” he murmurs. “I uh…” 

He trails off, suddenly feeling the words lodged in his chest, his breaths coming a little faster. 

Lance stares for a few more seconds before his face splits into a smile. 

“Keith that's fucking awesome!” He grins. With his right hand he picks his phone back up, his eyes not leaving Keith’s.  “Hunk I need a photo of this tattoo right now.” 

Lance calls into the receiver. 

“Yessir,” Hunk replies. 

 

Keith lets out a breath he had no idea he was trapping in his body. Relief washes over him, filling him with a sort of happy warmth. A glowing sense of joy in his toes and the tips of his fingers. 

 

“Come  _ on Hunk,”  _ Lance shifts impatiently. He turns to Keith. “I can’t believe you never told me you designed a  _ tattoo. _ For my best friend no less.” 

“I didn’t kn-” Keith is cut off by the beeping of Lance’s phone. He leans over, having never actually seen what his work looked like on Hunk’s skin. He hadn’t even expected him to get it done, especially so soon after having it designed. 

Lance gasps. His eyes fly wide open, his hand raising to cover his mouth as though, if he doesn’t, something vital will come tumbling out. 

 

“He did an amazing job,” Hunk says softly. “He matched the style of the rest of the tattoos I had but also made it full of his art’s… personality I guess.” 

 

There’s silence. Lance shakes, his expression impossible to read. 

 

“Hunk?” 

 

He murmurs it, as shy as the first drops of rain. 

 

Lance’s voice trembles behind a freckled palm. Keith turns to him, placing a hand on his shoulder lightly, hesitantly. Trying to soothe him, but not sure why he needed soothing. 

 

“Yes?” 

 

“Is this on your left leg?” 

 

There’s silence for a moment. Then he hears Hunk chuckle a little. 

 

“Yeah Lance,” He says through a huge grin. “Of course it is.” 

 

Lance smiles so wide that he feels like his lips might crack, like his whole face might split in two. 

 

“I can’t believe you actually did it,” Lance laughs and he can feel tears falling down his cheeks. He wipes them away hurriedly with a breathless chuckle. 

“Did what?” Keith asks, leaning forward a little to hear more of the conversation. Lance laughs again, wiping some tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

 

“When Hunk and I were younger,” Lance says, a twinge of sadness at a time lost in his eyes. Nostalgia molasses thick on his tongue. “We had this game where we’d pretend to be “defendenders of the universe”.” 

He chuckles at the memory, reliving the hours spent in the sun with dirt and plasters on his knees. The halcyon days of light and laughter. 

“We had this grand idea of giant robot lions that would come together to form a really big robot dude with a sword and wings.” Lance gestures wildly with his arms, mapping out shapes in the air with his hands. Hunk hums softly, recalling the same memories, the same giant figure that saved worlds in his mind. Keith laughs a little. 

“Robot lions?” He says in disbelief. 

“Robot lions.” Lance affirms. “I was blue, one of the legs-” 

“I was the other leg!” Hunk chimes in, his voice crackling over speaker. “Yellow for me.” 

“And a couple of other kids that came and went,” Lance continues. “But Hunk and I were the legs that held the whole thing up.” 

“Never skip leg day,” Hunk says gravely and Keith can't help but laugh. 

There’s a brief pause as the two bask in the memory, light smiles on their lips. 

“And the tattoo?” Keith asks

“Well Ituau had all these really cool tattoos and Hunk and I promised each other that if we were still friends we would get something like hers of each other,” Lance explains. 

“Ituau?” Keith asks, having trouble following. 

“One of Hunk’s moms,” Lance says. “Taimane is Hunk’s other mom. She’s…” Lance trails off, not wanting to continue unless Hunk did. 

 

“...Not with us anymore,” Hunk picks up. 

“I’m sorry,” Keith murmurs. 

“Me too,” Hunk says. “But God needed another angel, and there's not a better one than my mother.” 

“I can vouch for that statement,” Lance says. “Taimane made the  _ best  _ cookies. Nothing more angelic than those chocolate chip bites of goodness.” 

Hunk laughs and Keith does too, nostalgia in both chimes of their voices. Keith for his lost mother, all kimchi and soft hugs and Hunk for his own, swirling skirts and the smell of baking from somewhere in the house. 

“So when are you getting yours?” Keith asks after he and Hunk fall silent. 

“What?” Lance says. 

“Your tattoo,” Keith prods, piecing together the puzzle laid out before him. “You need a yellow lion for your right leg, right?” 

Lance leans back, thinking about it. 

“You don’t have to,” Hunk says. “We made that promise as kids-” 

“I want to though,” Lance butts in. “I’m just thinking about how I’d want it. One sec…” 

Lance puts the phone down, hitting speaker as he heads out with something like “keep each other company” trailing behind him. He walks out of the room, leaving Keith and Hunk in a radio silence. 

Keith looks around awkwardly, not really knowing where to go with a conversation from here. Hunk seems unperturbed by the silence, though it’s hard to tell over a phone line. 

He’s saved from the silence by Lance’s arrival in the room once again, a sketchbook under one arm and a pencil in the other.

He fixes his gaze on Keith and Keith is shocked by the intensity there. Raw and wild as a hurricane. Quickly, he thrusts the book into Keith’s hands, the pencil falling into his lap. Keith starts, stunned. Lance gets down on one knee slowly, still staring Keith down. As though challenging him. 

“Will you, Keith Kogane,” He says, voice bold, sharp as shattered glass. “Do me the honour of designing me a cool as fuck lion tattoo to state my undying love for my best friend Hunk?” 

He hears Hunk snicker over the phone, now facing skyward on the low coffee table. Keith looks at the sketchbook, then at Lance. 

He grins, placing a hand on the book. 

“Yes Lance,” he says, over exaggerating his voice like he has seen time and time again on reality TV. “A thousand times yes.” 

He hears Hunk clapping from the coffee table and Lance wipes a make believe tear from his eye. Lance smiles at Keith, the rawness fading away into a smouldering bonfire. It’s probably the softest smile Keith has ever seen from him and his heart skips a beat in surprise. 

 

“Thank you,” Lance says, softly. Too quiet for Hunk to hear but just loud enough for Keith to catch. “It really means a lot.” 

 

Keith smiles, placing his hand over Lance’s, still on the sketchbook. 

 

“Not a problem,” He replies. “Now let’s design you the coolest fucking tattoo anyone has ever seen.” 


	14. Lo-Fi Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tattoos, tragic news and an epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for waiting! updates are going to be very infrequent for awhile due to my participation (for some reason) of my final year of high school. hope you enjoy this chapter and i'll see you all next time! song is lo-fi children by wild party

"Oh I'm falling, falling, falling  
It wouldn't be half as bad if nobody knew  
But I'm stalling, stalling, stalling  
 _Oh, if I wait any more, I'll be overdue..."_

 

 

The tears in his eyes glisten like sunlight over the ocean, his lips curled back in a low and pained whimper. His hands shake, tremble, his body writhing with each pinprick of pain over his body. Keith feels his hand going numb, crushed under Lance’s tight grip around it.

“Why did you let me do thiiiiiiiiiiiis,” Lance groans, almost cries. He squeezes Keith’s hand tighter as the needle pricks up the back of his knee, a bolt of pain shooting through his left leg and resonating in his skull with a dull throb. Keith chuckles a little, rubbing the back of Lance’s hand with his thumb.

“Come on,” He says, wiping some of Lance’s hair from his forehead with his free hand. It’s slick with sweat from the pain in his leg, but Keith doesn’t mind in the slightest. “You’re the one that  _ wanted  _ it in the first place.” 

“But you should’ve stopped me,” Lance continues, sounding like a whiny child.  “You know I’m a wim-” He’s cut off sharply as the buzzing needle hits a soft spot on his calf, the back of his knee maybe. Keith can’t quite tell where the tattoo artist is pricking Lance’s skin from where he sits, but he can tell it hurts. Lance howls into the seat, gripping Keith’s hand tightly. Keith hears his knuckles crack under the pressure, possibly the third time it’s happened in the past three hours. 

“I’m painfully aware,” Keith deadpans, feeling Lance’s grip loosen a little as the worst of the pain fades away. He looks up at the tattooist, fixated on her work. Inking skin with pricks of a needle, a drop of blood. He can see the dark blue etched out on Lance’s calf, spiralling swirls that twist around his right leg. “Look, you’re almost done,” Keith says, as soothing as he can muster. “Just a few more minutes.” 

Lance groans again, letting his head fall facedown into the chair. His eyes fill with tears again and the sounds emanating from him remind Keith of a kicked puppy.

“I hate this I hate this I hate this I-” He yelps again and Keith almost feels bad for Lance, but also the tattoo artist for having to put up with his endless whining.  

“Think about how great it’ll look,” Keith soothes. “Think about how happy little Lance would be to see him and his best friend keeping their promise for this many years with a sick ass tattoo.” 

Lance sniffles. “Little Lance was a prick but okay,” Lance murmurs, hi voice a little defiant. But Keith can tell he’s won for now. 

Lance hangs his head in a pained defeat, only whimpering a few times before the tattoo is finalised, the tattoo artist wiping some sweat from her brow. She looks up and smiles at Keith, almost apologetically, then leans over to Lance. 

“You did great sweetie,” She says with a smile, patting Lance gently on the head. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear, small strands of it falling loose from her long braids after hours of strenuous work. She rubs some green soap onto the fresh tattoo, wiping it gently with a damp cloth. She drops a clear liquid onto it that smells earthy and medicinal, making sure it dries with a separate towel. 

“Do you want a photo sweetheart?” She asks. Lance groans in response. The tattoo artist turns to Keith expectantly, her dark skin sheened with sweat. Keith smiles as best he can at a stranger, not meeting her purple eyes; tinted by ink. He nods, taking his phone from his pocket. 

“The design was really wonderful,” She says as Keith snaps a photo, his camera clicking and asking him start a little. “Made my job a hell of a lot easier. Have you ever considered getting into tattooing?” 

Keith shrugs nervously. 

“I’ve never really thought about it,” he murmurs, shifting from foot to foot. He suddenly feels his hair on the back of his neck, nervousness tingling in his forearms. The tattooist seems to notice his discomfort and lays off a little, pulling something out of her pocket. 

“Here’s my card,” She says, pressing a piece of coloured paper into his hand as well as a wrapped stick of gum. “If you do think about it, or have any questions about your friend’s tattoo, just give me a call. Ask for Nyma.” 

Keith nods, his eyes fixated on his open palm and the objects there. He unwraps the gum and puts it in his mouth, looking up at her for the first time.

He meets her eyes with his own. He nods once, mumbling a hushed “thank you” to her before leaning down to show Lance the photo of his tattoo. 

“What do you think?” Keith asks. Lance turns his head from facedown to left facing and his blue eyes light up. Keith feels the tension turn to softness at seeing Lance brighten up, the joy over something he created loosening his limbs. 

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, voice hushed. 

“What?” Keith asks, trying to hide a smile. 

“It’s fucking amazing,” Lance almost shouts. He sits up a little in the chair despite being face down on it. 

“Damn my legs almost look  _ hotter  _ now.” Lance murmurs, almost to himself but loud enough for the two around him to hear. Keith laughs at that, the nervousness fading into a dull happiness and the flavour of bubblegum on his tongue.

“Alright mister hot legs,” Keith says, grabbing his arm to help him to his feet. His body is cold from the sweat, goosebumps raising on his bare skin. “Let’s get you back home.” 

“Oh before you go,” Nyma chimes in. Keith turns his head as best he can with Lance strewn over his shoulders. She passes him a plastic bag with a small pamphlet and some liquid in a small bottle. “The sheet has some care tips and the liquid is just an antiseptic.” 

Keith takes it, giving her a small and shaky smile. 

“Thank you,” he says. Lance mumbles a thank you as well, but it sounds more like a groan than actual words. Keith chuckles under his breath and walks out, calling out a goodbye as he and Lance leave. 

  
  


+++

 

Her hair flashes in the sunlight, appearing almost luminescent in the rays traipsing through the windowpanes. She’s standing on top of a stool, one etched with the name of a bygone student in fading, scratched font.  Her long skirt swirls around her ankles, half obscuring her bare feet. She almost dances on the stool, each movement precise and graceful. 

It would be beautiful were it not for the fact of how loud she was yelling. 

“How did you not learn this in highschool?” Allura screams, frustration raw and heavy on her vocal chords. Lance had tried covering his ears to no avail. 

“Dadaism was a  _ branch  _ of modernism. What the hell do they even teach you in school these days?” She hops down from the stool, landing without a sound on the linoleum floor. It's extraordinary, but also terrifyingly precise. 

She draws up a line on a chalkboard,the chalk screeching as she marks out points on it. The left side of the line reads “classical” in a font that Lance can only describe as  _ frustrated  _ and the right, much the same, screams “contemporary”. He leans back, holding onto the front of his seat for support, suddenly uninterested in the lesson. He’d done paper after paper on modernism and was not in the mood to rehash those many hours spent explaining Monet’s conceptual practice. He poked Keith with his index finger, trying to grab his attention. 

Keith looks at him, almost surprised as his attention flickers from a blank page of his sketchbook to Lance and then back to the book again. 

“Hey space cadet,” Lance says, grinning slyly. “Whatcha doin back here?” 

It takes Keith a moment to refocus his attention from la-la land to the present, but Lance can tell when he does when the smallest smile of amusement tickles his cheeks. Lance feels his smile shift from sly to fond in a singles moment. 

“Took a trip to Kerberos,” Keith replies, said like a ritual but still with that same smile. It’s his usual response when Lance catches him zoning out, but Lance loves it nonetheless. 

“I hear it’s nice this time of year,” Lance responds, playing along. Keith shrugs, a little over-emphasised. 

“A bit cold, but what can you do,” Keith replies. Their conversation is cut off abruptly by the sudden sound of Allura’s voice. 

“Lance!” Allura calls out, the force of her shout like a blow, almost knocking Lance off of his chair. He stays leaning backwards, but lifts his head so he can see Allura.  “What was the motto that modernists created their art by?” Lance blinks a few times, gathering his bearings once again. 

“Um,  _ avant-garde _ ?” He answers, but phrases it like a question. He knows he’s right, but Allura has little tolerance for know-it-alls. She turns swiftly back to the chalkboard, writing it in between brackets underneath block capitals reading “MODERNISM”.

“Perfect,” She says. Then, fast as a bullet, turns to Keith. Her right hand points the chalk at him, like an accusation. “Keith, what does it mean?” 

“Always in the new,” Keith says, not missing a beat, his voice changing to the rehearsed tone he takes on when reciting information. It's like he’s mimicking someone else’s voice; repeating the sounds of a memory. 

“Thank you Keith,” Allura says, turning back to the chalkboard. The chalk scritch-scratches and Lance leans over again to talk to Keith when he’s sure they’re safe from Allura’s wrath. He shifts a little in his seat to make himself more comfortable. 

“Do you think pluto should be considered a planet or a dwarf planet?” Lance asks suddenly, but casually. Keith pauses for a moment, pondering it. 

“Dwarf planet,” Keith says, taking a note in his book with a pencil after a small lapse into silence. “It’s smaller than Ceres which is a dwarf planet, so Pluto should be one as well.” 

Lance nods. “I have this theory,” he begins, keeping his voice hushed so Allura doesn't notice their idle conversation. “That people who believe Pluto should stay a planet are less susceptible to change. They’re more sentimental and tend to cling to the past a lot more.” 

Keith chuckles softly, careful to keep his voice down. 

“Well what about you then?” Keith asks. The he lowers his voice, cupping a hand around his mouth as if murmuring a secret. “Are you a pluto sympathiser?” 

Lance laughs, but is careful to keep it hushed. 

“I think I am,” he replies. “I can't help but feel like kicking Pluto out of the planet category is kind of… rude to Pluto? I know Pluto is just a fucking ice rock orbiting the sun, but something in me says that Pluto would be offended.” 

Keith huffs a little, eyes flickering away from Lance’s to take a note from the chalkboard. They come back down with a lingering sense of concentration but also a deep fondness. Lance feels his heart twist at that, a dull thrum in his chest. 

He’d seen that look in Keith’s eyes before, when he would talk about art, when Lance would sing songs to the tunes Keith hummed. But he’d never seen it directed  _ at  _ him. 

“I think Pluto has bigger things to worry about than what humans think of them,” Keith replies, setting his pencil down on his book. “But I see your point. Wouldn't want to offend a celestial body.” 

 

The rest of the class passes in a crazed rush of Allura screaming at students and shoving papers into their arms, begging them to read the articles she's given them so they can write a decent paper. Lance takes one look at the papers and shoves them immediately into his bag. If he could be bothered to read something unnecessary, Hell would have frozen over. His phone lights up as he does so and he sees a message from Hunk on the screen. He looks around, catches Keith’s eye at the doorway. He waves him off, indicating that he should start walking home without him. Keith nods and starts walking.

Lance opens his phone, reading Hunk’s message. It’s a few messages after a photo Lance sent of his freshly pricked tattoo only two weeks earlier. He’d been busy since then, working on some new machine. He reads the messages and feels his skin grow cold. 

 

From:  **♥️☀️Hunk☀️♥️**

 

  * __My mom is sick__


  * _Really sick_


  * _She needs me to go back home and see her_


  * _Please text me when you see this_


  * _I don't think I can go alone_



 

 

Lance feels his face drop, the warmth from the day draining from his body. A glacier settles in his stomach, his fingertips. The bottom of his spine. Icicles jut from his throat and a blizzard starts up in his lungs. 

 

_ No.  _

 

It's all he can think. Clear, desperate. 

 

_ Not again.  _

  
  


_ +++ _

  
  


“Keith,” 

 

His voice filters through the room. Bounces off the painted walls, now filled with some of Keith’s paintings as well as Lance’s own. It reverberates through the half-filled coffee cups on the table; the not-chipped one for Keith and the turtle shaped one for Lance. It rattles in his chest, shifting the icicles that have settled there since he’d seen the messages only hours earlier. 

 

Keith looks up from where he’s attempting to cook something that smells of fried garlic. He catches sight of Lance, paused in his sketching out a new drawing on the wall. He’s mapped out the shapes and the soft folds of skin, the glisten of sweat and the rosy pink sheen of joy along the cheeks. Keith feels like he recognises it,  but can't quite place from where. 

 

“Mm?” Keith responds, his attention flickering back to the pan as the oil flares up a little. He pauses in slicing up some vegetables but resumes again when the pan remains still. Lance can hear the dull thunk of a knife on the chopping board start up again. He adjusts his grip on the pencil in his hand, shifting the way he's sitting on the floor. 

 

“Hunk’s mom is sick,” He says. Slowly, as though saying it too fast will make it harder to get out. He feels the ice in his throat, threatening to choke him. Keith sets the knife down, paying full attention to Lance now and turning around. 

 

“Lance I-” Keith starts, his voice coming out sad, hurt. Like he's just taken a blow to the stomach and is still reeling slightly. 

“He’s going to go see her back in Arizona,” Lance continues, too scared to stop. His hand shakes where he holds the pencil, but he keeps drawing, trying to get rid of the frost with the fire of creation. Tries to burn it out, smoke it alive. 

“He doesn't want to go alone.” 

It’s final. It’s a statement and a question that he leaves dangling in the air. Waiting. 

 

Lance pauses, drops his pencil. He’s pressing his shaking hands into his lap, his voice coming out calm despite his quaking limbs.

Keith has already moved to him, wrapping an arm gently over his shoulders. Almost as though he’s trying to hold him together; keeping him warm against the frost in his heart. 

“He asked me to go with him.” Lance says, looking up at Keith. He sees Keith look back at him, his eyes dark with worry. Swirling like a storm. 

Lance had learned to find comfort in those eyes, to find a fire there to keep him warm and help him through everything life threw his way. 

 

Through the nights that he’d woken up in a cold sweat, to the lilac stain across his memory, the raised voices and the joy at seeing those dark eyes after his stint in San Francisco. He trembles, feels an epiphany smack him square in the face. 

 

Lance loved Keith. 

 

It dawned on him, with the drawing of a sick woman in front of him and the threat of a death looming over him, that there was no one else he wanted to be here with right now than Keith. 

 

Lance had learned to love Keith without even realising it. He’d fallen for his stupid mullet; for his crinkling smile and the laugh he did only when Lance was around. The smell of bubblegum that followed him every where, the way he fiddled with the hem of his clothing when he felt nervous. His art, his walk, the way he woke up with messy hair and a bleary expression. 

 

The way he held him now, gripping him tightly as Lance wept into his chest, finally breaking under the pressure. Cracking under the realisation and the sudden impact of Hunk’s messages. All at once, an imploding star. 

 

It hurt him that he’d only realised it now, with his friend’s mom in hospital somewhere in Arizona, his hands shaking and frostbite nipping at his toes. He sobbed for an hour, maybe longer. 

 

And Keith. 

 

The boy who gave him his tattoo, who held his hand while he screamed at a nightmare, who painted his walls as an apology. 

Who pushed him to be better, to reconnect with his best friend, to try as hard as he could in everything he did. Who gave him courage to  _ be.  _

 

Keith held him through the whole thing, humming distantly as Lance clung to him, his heart rupturing in a supernova. 

 

Keith could feel it all the way on Pluto, the flare sparking on Kerberos. 


	15. Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith makes a realisation, Lance and Hunk are stuck in a waiting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a wild update has appeared!   
> happy new year everyone!  
> thank you all SO MUCH for sticking with me. we're getting to the end here all thanks to each and every single one of you who have supported me time and time again. this chapter is shorter than usual because it's more of a set-up chapter for the next few to come.   
> again, thank you all. your support for this fic has really kept me going and helped me fall in love with writing again. next chapter will be quite large though due to exams might be a long time coming.   
> song is "waves" by Dean Lewis

"There is a swelling storm  
And I'm caught up in the middle of it all  
And it takes control  
Of the person that I thought I was  
The boy I used to know  
But there, is a light  
In the dark, and I feel its warmth  
 _In my hands, and my heart"_

 

The sky is painted purple. 

It doesn’t look purple, the colours of the sunset don’t match the mauve that he sees, don’t match the mulberry stains of the clouds. The sun is a blotchy orange, the clouds cut scarlet into the sky. 

It doesn’t look purple, the colours aren't there. It just  _ feels  _ purple. 

Like nostalgia. 

A deep magenta swirl that tugs on the ends of his lips, pulling his face into a loose grin, filling his chest with swells of affection and twinges of joy.

__  
  


_ “Hi,” he says, his voice like caramel and honey. “Are you Keith?” _

__  
  
  
  


He closes his eyes, seeing vague outlines impressed on the inside of his eyelids, twirling themselves into the memories that he relives whenever he can. The blend and twist in time with his thrumming heart, a symphony of sounds and sighs. 

An amethyst purple cuts through him, hitting his swelling heart. The pace picks up and he feels himself reeling from the impact. 

He knows this purple too well, the crisp and sharp pain of anxiety rippling through him. A jab to the chest in amethyst, a punch to the gut in lilac.“What if?” He hears, echoed in mulberry purples along his skull, painted in the place behind his eyelids. A dangerous thought that brings him the magenta and the amethyst all at once. His body trembles and his fingers grasp for something to stop the tremors. 

__  
  


It had been a week since Lance had left. 

__  
  


He’d called Keith every night, telling him about the treatments, the diagnoses. He heard Hunk in the background at times. Murmuring or crying, sniffling away tears when a nurse asked him to leave or when his mother was awake. 

“They've found a growth on her thyroid,” Lance said to Keith, just that morning. Keith had been bleary eyed and cold with the lack of Lance to keep him warm overnight, felt the apartment shake and howl with its emptiness. Lance, on the other end of the line, sounded as exhausted as Keith felt. His voice cracked over the word “growth”, shuddering like a house on a faultline. “They’re looking into the tissue of the thyroid that it's affecting and whether or not it’s spread passed the thyroid. It’s going to be a lot of not knowing for awhile until they figure out what tissue its affected.” 

Keith nods stiffly. Amethyst shards piercing his heart. 

“And how’s Hunk doing?” Keith asks, his legs crossed on the couch, staring at the lightly paint-splashed ceiling. He could hear Lance adjusting the phone, switching it to another ear maybe. 

“He’s coping,” Lance replies. Firmly, like there's a lump in his throat. Perhaps the same purple crystal lodged in his windpipe. It’s strained, a struggle to get out. 

“How about you?” Keith asks. Softly, nudging him to an answer. Bringing him to the water and watching him silently, urging him to drink. 

It's quiet. 

Keith can hear the blips of heart monitors through the receiver and rattling metal wheels. Distant crying. He can almost smell the antiseptic in the air.

“I’m coping too,” Lance says. Another pause. “Enough.” 

Another silence, an interlude as they both look out at the sky. Lance from a waiting room window and Keith from the roof of their apartment; staring at the stars. The same stars even at this distance. Keith traces out Orion with his eyes, the big dipper, the Cancer constellation hanging low in the sky. 

“Can I call you again tomorrow?” Lance asks suddenly. Hesitantly. Keith smiles a little despite the fact that no one can see it, barely noticing it himself. He leans back on the couch a little, feeling his fingers tighten around his crossed calves. 

“Of course,” Keith replies, hearing Lance let out a held breath on the other end of the line. “Now go get some sleep or something. It’s 1am.” 

Lance chuckles at that and Keith feels the magenta in the pit of the stomach like he does now, staring out into the sunset. 

__  
  
  
  


It’s then it hits him. 

__  
  
  
  


With the fading sting of amethyst in his chest and the mulberry purple swirling through his stomach that he realises. 

With the moon now hanging in the sky and two of his friends watching a mother sleep in a hospital bed, uncertainty dripping from her skin and the faulty organ in her throat. 

It’s here on the rooftop of this apartment he fell into by chance, painted the walls of and cooked thousands of cups of noodles over the last two years he’d lived between these coloured walls and rainbow painted floors. 

It was now that he realised he loved Lance. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs to the stars in disbelief as the thought dawns on him. The sky opens up to him then, the purples becoming neon. 

__  
  


He yells in surprise at his own thoughts, straight to the Heavens. Orion bends to him in pity, Cancer sinks lower to avoid his shouts. 

__  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Fuck!” 

__  
  


+++

__  
  


He laces his fingers tightly together, clasping them until the skin stretches white over his knuckles. His leg shakes, jittery as a child forced to sit through a sermon. It smells of antiseptic. Of bloated bodies and snatches of sobs in the small cubicles of the bathrooms. 

He hadn’t had a single nightmare since he arrived here despite the stains of lilac the beeping heart monitors evoked, despite the voices echoing in his head. It’s hard to have nightmares when your life has become the worst-case scenario. Hard to dream up something worse than the pain in your chest. 

Hunk hums softly to himself, hands shaking but trying desperately to maintain his composure. Tears glisten in his eyes and his whole body is wracked with tremors. He looks like a house built on a faultline, slowly crumbling away between each trembling breath. 

Lance reaches forward, resting his hand on his friend’s, holding him together as best he can. A bandaid on a broken bone. 

“You can do this,” Lance murmurs. He rubs his thumb soothingly over the back of Hunk’s hand. “No matter what, we’ll get through this.”

Hunk gives him a wry smile and one of the glistening tears slips loose and journeys down his cheek. The same cheeks of his mother that have lingered despite the paleness of her skin and the shallowness of her breath. The same cheeks Lance painted on his wall when he found out. A living memory on the canvas of his apartment. Hunk wipes it away quickly with his free hand, laughing a little in desperation. 

“H-Hunk?” A voice calls, snapping Lance’s attention to the doorway leading out of the waiting room. Out of this purgatory he and Hunk remain suspended in. “Hunk Garrett?” 

He hears Hunk take in a sharp breath, crystals lodging in his throat. His breaths become shorter, eyes swelling with tears as he stumbles to his feet. Stiffly, with raw terror etched in every movement. 

The doctor smiles, gesturing to the door out of purgatory, the gateway to either Heaven, Hell, or another room with a door leading nowhere. 

“Just this way,” She says softly. Hunk marches forward, every fibre of his being tensed. Lance follows behind, keepin Hunk’s hand tightly clasped in his own to avoid them both shaking to pieces. 

+++

The campus is quiet. 

It’s late, almost midnight and the kids who attend the night class have all started to disperse and scatter back to their homes and hideouts. Their shoes shuffle across the concrete and the grass of the quad as they disappear into the shadows. 

Keith treads through the darkness, catching glowing eyes of stray cats and small shining lights out front of the few shops around campus. The warm August air rustles through the emerald leaves of the trees, shaking them in time with a rhythm Keith can’t quite grasp. 

He finds his way to the door, lit dimly by a bulb that flickers as moths fly over it, their wings almost solid black when lit from behind. 

He lifts a hand tentatively, raising it in a fist at the door. 

_ He could just go home.  _

He shakes the thought from his mind quickly with a single swing of his head. No. He’s doing this. He has to. 

Before he can knock the door swings open, a puff of wind from the action blowing his hair and making his eyes widen with surprise. 

Shiro stands before him, a wild look of expectant terror in his eyes, his body taut as a bowstring. Keith holds up his hands in front of him reflexively, trying to put something between him and this man that could possibly kill him with one swing. 

Shiro backs away quickly, melting into the shape that Keith has gotten to know over time. 

Shiro sweeps back his hair, taking in a deep breath. 

“Fucking hell Keith,” he murmurs, the fire in his eyes disappearing on his tongue. “You scared the bejeezus out of me.” 

“Scared the what?” Keith asks, lowering his hands. Shiro chuckles, moving aside so that Keith can enter the room, the tension falling away. 

“Nevermind.” He says, walking over to the chair at the front of the room that he sits in for classes. The monitor is lit up from within, covered with the results of a google search for “space jam theme song”. Keith sits down on the chair closest to Shiro, immediately curling up to take up as little space on the chair as possible. 

“What can I help you with?” Shiro asks, turning his full attention to Keith, examining him with an observant eye that makes Keith feel as though his insides are being laid out on the floor for examining. He shifts in his seat, feeling his palms start to sweat. 

“I…” He starts, stumbles. Shiro watches him, not pushing him into speaking but almost reaching out a hand for him to take if he needs it. Keith sighs, regaining his footing. 

“I think I’m…” He starts, the words right on the tip of his tongue, amethyst thrumming in his chest. “I think I’m in love with Lance.” 

It feels strange to say it out loud. His heart beats heavily, his breaths come in short. 

Yet there’s a weight in the pit of his stomach that is no longer there, a dawn over the horizon that sparkles a thousand shades of purple behind his eyelids. He looks at Shiro in surprise at the emotional intensity that came about just through the words. Shiro smiles back, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“Really?” He says with a grin. With a slight inflection Keith recognises as possible sarcasm. “What makes you say that?” 

Definitely sarcastic. He frowns at Shiro, crossing his arms over his chest. He turns away, not meeting his eyes. Shiro laughs and Keith looks up at him, fake pouting. 

“Oh come on Keith,” Shiro chuckles. “I was joking.” 

Keith readjusts his position, still refusing to speak. 

“But really,” He continues, leaning back on his chair. “What makes you say that?” 

Same question, phrased differently. Keith softens a little, scratching at the back of his hands. 

“It just hit me,” he murmurs, reliving all of the magenta, mulberry and amethyst of that night. “Out of nowhere. I guess it’s been true for a long time but then I  _ realised  _ and suddenly everything made sense. It was like finding a missing piece to a puzzle and everything clicked into place.” 

He stops himself suddenly, cheeks blooming red. He can feel his hands burning the same way his face does, scraped raw by the emotions boiling in his stomach. A mix of anxiety, euphoria, dread and something more. Something that just feels  _ right.  _

“God,” Keith says, bringing his hands up to cover his face. “I sound so fucking stupid.” 

He feels a presence on his left knee. Shiro’s flesh palm, rested on his leg to anchor him. Keith is sure Shiro can feel the heat of his face even through the slight contact. 

“You don’t sound stupid,” Shiro reassures. “But you do sound pretty in love. And sometimes that feels  _ really  _ stupid.” 

Keith laughs a little, hands dropping from his face tentatively. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Definitely,” Shiro affirms. “It’s stupid sometimes. Overwhelming even. But it’s also really  _ really _ great.”

Keith laughs a little, easing some of the tension in his body. Shiro gets to his feet, lifting his hand from Keith’s leg and offering it to him so he can stand. 

“Now quit talking to me about it,” Shiro says with a half smile. “Go and tell him. Life’s too short not to right?” 

Keith chuckles, taking Shiro’s hand as he gets to his feet. 

“Yeah,” he replies, “Too short.” 


	16. Lost in You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diagnosis, a phone call and a red dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your patience in these next few chapters, it's been a long wait i know. i'm going to be deleting all of the *update* chapters when the next chapter goes up which means this chapter will be chapter 16 and the new one will be chapter 17. so don't get worried if you come back and there's less chapters than before! we're getting to the end here but thank you all so much for sticking with me through this year (almost two now???). it means so much to me to have such lovely people here for me at all of my lows who enjoy my writing. the song used in this chapter is "Lost in You" by Khai dreams. it's very sweet so give it a listen.   
> also! one last thing! the new chapter should be up within the week. it was initially part of this chapter but i felt as though it needed to be split up into two, so keep an eye out for chapter 17!

"I don't know why   
All your love I'm tryna find   
I'm so lost in you   
 _And all that you do..."_

 

 

 

An exhale. Sharp, strong. A gust of wind signalling the end of a storm, the last devastating sweep before it all comes crashing down. 

 

“Luckily the carcinoma is papillary,” The doctor explains, looking at a clipboard and flipping over pages occasionally to check the scribbled and illegible words written there. Lilting doctor script that smells of the end. 

”We decided to do a course of radioiodine therapy due to the spread of the cancer to the lymph nodes before trying surgery on the carcinoma itself. The treatment has thankfully had the desired effect and we’re seeing the growth gradually slow to a stop.” 

Lance can feel Hunk trembling next to him, sitting in a coarsely woven chair right beside his sleeping mother. His whole body quakes, days of tension knitted tightly into his body, slipping through the cracks in his armour as tears. He clenches Lance’s hands tightly enough to crush the bones, his skin warm against Lance’s own. It hurts, but feels very far away. 

“So what do we do next?” He asks, stumbling over his words. Trying his best to get them out over the lump of topaz joy bubbling up in his throat. 

The doctor frowns slightly, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “Well we will have to consider surgery at this stage to remove the carcinoma,” she replies, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Which was always something we were considering even as a precautionary measure to stop any further spread.”

 

Hunk shakes his head slowly, dark hair shifting in the movement. Deep brown waves swaying in an invisible wind. The topaz falters, his hold on Lance’s hand tightening again. 

 

The doctor sighs, tucking her short greying hair behind her ear. 

“The surgery has a close to a one hundred percent success rate with the type of tissue it's affecting,” She says. Lance can feel the grip on his hand waver with the words. “A small amount of continued radioiodine therapy may be necessary in order to completely stop the spread.” 

Lance looks at Hunk, traces the soft set of his jaw, the glistening tears tickling at his cheeks. 

“As for what this all means,” She takes a small breath, eyes flickering to the unconscious woman who she's speaking about. “It’s almost certain that she’ll pull through. I’ll contact some of the surgeons to speak to you directly about the procedure but we can set that up a bit later.” 

Lance feels Hunk shudder beside him, his hand aching. He looks as though he wants to speak but his lips falter around the words, stammer over the yellow tourmaline that has settled itself in the nooks of his heart as it fades into a gentle topaz. A warm relief. 

“Do you have any questions?” the doctor asks, taking the clipboard back in her hands. 

“Is she going to be okay?” Hunk asks, his hand shaking in Lance’s and his leg bouncing at the same fast pace of his pulse that lance can feel in his hand. 

The doctor flashes a small, quick but achingly genuine smile. 

“It’s almost certain.” she replies. 

Hunk slumps in his seat, letting out a deep and relieved sigh. The Earth stops its tremours and his pulse becomes the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings instead of the incessant drumbeat of incoming warfare it had been only moments ago. Those three words came as a calm and an antidote that lifted the heavy mountains of worry piling on his shoulders. Lance sighed too, feeling that same weight lift from him. They look at each other, briefly. Eyes wide with a bewildered joy. 

  
  


“Thank you so much Doctor Te-Osh.” Hunk says, facing the doctor once more. 

The doctor smiles again with a a small nod, straightening up a little. 

“Of course,” she says. “Now I’ll leave you all to talk together. Just press the red button if you need anything.” She moves towards the door with a slight wave and steps out into the hallway, disappearing into the small crowd of nurses and family members of other patients outside. 

 

There’s a silence as the door clicks closed.

 

Hunk turns to Lance, beaming with the same iridescent glow as the sun seen through a butterflies wings. A rare but spectacular display of beauty just in that one shining smile. 

“She’s going to be okay,” he chokes out, around the grinning teeth and the tears spilling from his eyes. He lets go of Lance’s hand to try and wipe them away with his palms, laughing to himself between sobs. Lance smiles, the fear from only moments before dissolving into a fatigued euphoria, a glowing pulse in his chest. It makes his arms weak, but strong enough to wrap around his best friend in relief. 

He murmurs it again. A prophecy fulfilled, a fact. 

  
  


“She’s going to be  _ okay _ .”

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

“So you’re coming back then?”

Keith lifts his bag over his shoulder, looking out into the blurry outline of the world, unfocused and hazy. He walks out of the classroom in a blur, only hearing Lance’s voice over the line, the aperture of the world adjusting to make the voice his centre of attention. 

“Yeah,” Lance replies. Keith can hear happy mumbles of conversation in the background on his side, recognising the lilts in tone as Hunk’s and someone else’s. Probably his mom. 

“She’s almost definitely going to pull through. Hunk said he’d be okay here on his own so…” Lance trails off, looking fondly at the two rapt in conversation in the sunlight spilling from the window. Hunk turns around with a beaming smile at Lance, his hand in his mother’s inked and calloused one. He gives Lance a single nod and Lance nods back. 

“I’m coming home.”

Keith smiles a little, looking out onto the green of campus, right in front of the library. It waves almost expectantly in the wind, daring Keith to speak the mulberry purple realisation on his lips. 

“I’m so glad to hear she’s okay,” Keith says, sitting down in front of some plants laid into the raised ground near the stairs to the library. He pauses for a few seconds, considering. Swallowing back some of the lilac and pale purple.  _ Another time.  _

“And I’m glad you’re coming back.” 

He hears Lance smile, feels it. His heart swells, his fingers grasping at the brick beneath him.  

“I’m glad I’m coming back too,” He murmurs. “Very glad.” 

  
  


+++ 

He sees red. 

Not an angry red, a red of lust or the red wrath that bubbles and boils beneath the surface. 

It’s a soft red. Crimson almost, stained with maroons and siennas the likes of which he hasn't seen in years. 

He blinks, holding his hand out to it, trying to touch this swirling pigment in front of him. 

His hand touches something soft. Something warm and calloused at the edges. Something… familiar. 

He opens his eyes even though he didn’t remember closing them, feels the warmth pressing gently into his hand. 

“This one is you,” he hears before he sees. He’s looking at a painting of his hand with each and every freckle painted precisely onto the sun stained pigment of his skin. He sees poetry, etched in a language he can’t understand but that whispers to him nonetheless. It tells him about a sky, the colour. He hears the characters speak, but now he recognises their lilts and tones. 

“Have you ever been caught in the rain on a really cold day?”

He feels himself nod, but somewhere else in time. A different place, a world he can feel in his fingertips. 

“Well it’s like that feeling you get when you go home and take a shower after that. It’s the colour of that kind of warm. Like being hugged, or waking up in a warm bed…”

The voice trails off into nothingness and he feels an emptiness in his ribcage. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


He brings his hand to it...

  
  
  
  
  
  


And he is awake. 


	17. Aawake at Night (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lance touches down, keith sits on the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoooooooooo, sorry this took so long! things have been difficult for me lately but i'm pulling through! thank you for being so patient and still reading this! i think you will all like the next chapter ;)   
> song is "Aawake at Night" by half• alive

 

 

"Alone in a crowded room  
My eyes will search for you  
Abandoned by my company  
I’ll search for what’s in front of me  
 _And hope that I find something new..."_  


 

 

He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the crowd of people for a familiar tawny mop of hair and striking blue eyes. He catches a boy about the same height, a woman with a similar haircut and a man wearing an outfit Lance owns before he finally spots him. He’s blinking blearily as those coming off a flight usually are, but there’s also an expectant happiness on his face. A joy on the edge of his searching gaze.

He holds out his hand, bringing Lance’s attention to him over the sea of faces. Lance looks over, eyes crashing with the waves onto him, splashing him with confusion. 

“Shiro?” Lance asks, wading over to him. The ocean of people parts to let him pass. Shiro smiles at him, a breath of air swelling in place of the water. He gives Lance a small wave, ushering him further up shore. 

“Yep that’s me,” Shiro replies. “I’m Shiro. How was your flight?” 

“It was fine,” Lance says, still blinking as though trying to rid himself of a strange dream. He rubs his eyes and lets his small duffel bag dangle. “I slept through most of it. Is uh, is Keith here?” 

Shiro’s smile grows wider and he starts walking, gesturing for Lance to follow him. Lance starts and lifts his bag over his shoulder. He catches up to Shiro and matches his pace. 

“Keith told me to come get you,” Shiro says, leaving the airport through sliding glass doors and walking into the parking lot with Lance in tow. “He has this thing he wanted to do, and don’t ask me what it is because I’m not allowed to tell you, but he needed time to get it ready. So he asked me to come and pick you up.” 

 

Lance’s mind reels with possibilities. He feels dizzy at the thought of each thing that Keith could possibly have come up with and feels anxiety well up in the pit of his stomach. He has no reason to be nervous, but somehow he is, feeling the air closing in around him tight and suffocating. 

“What-” Lance’s voice cracks. He stops and clears his throat. “What… thing?” 

Shiro stops and puts his hand on Lance’s shoulder. Lance can feel the cold of the metal through his t-shirt, the weight of it more than he’s used to. 

“I told you,” Shiro says. “I can’t tell you.” 

He pulls his hand away and gestures to a small black car. 

“So how about you get in and you can find out for yourself.” 

  
  


+++

  
  


His hands shake, quiver, crumble. 

He feels amethyst crackle at his fingertips, ruby rupturing red in his chest. And somewhere, painted over the mulberry sky he can feel an anxious thrum of sapphire. 

 

He fumbles for cardboard, feels a familiar stain of paper on his hand. Paper not for drawing or for creating, but for burning and destroying. Grey smoke when graphite isn’t enough. 

 

_ Keith makes a break for Lance. Right at him. Even before he can see him, he knows exactly where he is. Like a thread pulling at his heart, tugging, a shimmer of blue on the white linoleum.  _

_ He’s panting, out of breath from running. His face is hot, his hair is a mess and he  still feels a bit dizzy from the sleeping pills.  _

 

_ But never in his life has he felt more alive.  _

 

He feels so strongly sometimes. The memories all twining with his heartstrings until he feels out of breath; exhausted. He burns the amethyst ache out with each drag, fills his lungs with ash instead of mulberry. Even happiness is overwhelming t times, the purples a draining euphoria that leave him winded and breathless. 

_ He crosses his arms defensively, curling in on himself. “But I get it if you don’t want to hang around my crazy anymore,” he adds. “I can leave if you want me t-” _

_ He’s cut off by Lance’s arms grabbing by the shoulders. He uncrosses his arms in surprise, finding himself dragged into the tightest, warmest hug he’s ever had. _

 

Another drag, a burn in the back of his throat. He coughs a little, closing his eyes to soak up the sun instead of the sadness that bubbled up from his toes to his ears. 

 

“Keith?” 

 

He jumps a little, turning to the sound of his name on a salted caramel tongue. A voice he’s so used to hearing that it comes like a breath of fresh air to him. A gust of cold wind that clears his chest. He smiles when he sees him. The ache is gone. His hands are still shaking and he can feel his teeth chattering with each tremble of his body. But there’s no pain. 

Just a mulberry joy that fills him to the brim. It glows through the gaps in his teeth as he speaks and smiles over the taste of caramel in his ears. 

 

“Hi Lance.” 

 

+++

 

Lance feels the warmth of Keith next to him, their shoulders pressed together on the roof of the apartment they share. Have shared for over a year now. 

Keith smells like he always does, rosemary and graphite, though today there’s an extra hue of cigarette smoke. 

The sky behind him is a blending canvas of shades and tones, some dark and some illuminated by the rays of the sun. He shifts his gaze to Keith, feeling the rise and fall of every breath through their touching shoulders, feels his heart beating in his chest. 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Lance says. Keith can feel his voice buzz through his clavicle; his ribcage. He turns his head slowly, meeting the brilliant blue hue of Lance’s eyes with his own deep dark bronze. Only a breath a part. 

“Only when I’m really nervous,” Keith replies. He’s trembling, his hands fluttering wings on his cigarette, his heartbeat quick in Lance’s chest. Yet his voice comes out so calm.

“Is everything alright?” Lance asks. He shifts himself a little on the tiles of the roof. Facing Keith rather than the setting sun. Farther apart now. Two breaths instead of one. 

Keith smiles back. Loose and unfazed despite the scabs on the back of his hands and the trembling of his legs. 

“Yeah,” he replies. He almost laughs. “Everything is actually really really  _ right  _ Lance.” 

Lance looks him over, gauging his movements. He can’t make sense of what’s happening, can’t figure out what Keith is trying to tell him. 

But he’s so glad to see him again. Even though his hands are scabbed and bandaged, his lips cracked and bitten. Even though he has dark circles under his eyes and he’s smoking. Even though Keith looks nervous, just the sight of him fills Lance with a glowing joy. He laughs a little and Keith turns to him, confused. 

“I missed you,” Lance says, softly. As though saying it too loud will crack the sky open or tear the fragile happiness floating between them. He’s looking out over the street, his eyes tracing a path towards the horizon, the ocean too far away to see. 

He used to long to go over that ocean, to crawl his way back home into the arms of his family. To see them again. 

But his home was no longer that place. It wasn’t where he’d grown up and where he’d left. 

Home was now a person. 

It was the feeling of breath beside him, rosemary and graphite. The scratched hands and bitten nails. The loose smile. 

 

Lance was finally home. 

 

“I missed you too,” Keith mumbles. He looks down, unable to meet Lance’s eyes any longer. His voice wobbles and shakes over his words, the happy mulberry pierced by a nervous amethyst. Lance falters, feeling the need to reach out to Keith with his hands frozen at his side. 

“Shiro said you wanted to show me something,” He murmurs, trying to thaw his hands enough to stop Keith’s from shaking. He wants to hold him, but he can’t seem to move. It feels wrong somehow, something in Keith’s shape telling him ‘ _ not now’. _

Keith swallows back a lump in his throat, a purple crystal that has made its home there. He nods at Lance, getting to his feet. 

“Yeah,” Keith replies, making his way to the opening in the roof. He lets his legs dangle in, thinking before fixing Lance with a glowing smirk. 

“I do and I think you’ll like it.” 

+++

 

She had smiled at Keith when he’d made his request. Quiet fire and a crackle of lightning over her shining white teeth. 

Day time, the other students filtering slowly out of the room; dust motes floating in the air. 

“So a show then?” She’d asked. He’d nodded, shifting from foot to foot. “In your apartment?” 

“Something like that.” 

He could feel the mischief in her smile over the biting sting of the scabs on his hands, smell a spray of lavender as she crossed her legs over her stool. Right ankle over left like a Princess. 

“I’ll ask the gallery where they put them and get them back to you by tomorrow,” she’d said. She looked outside, eyes scanning the green field of the central oval. “Can I know what it's for?” 

Keith scratched harder, plucked a scab free of his skin and made red well up from the wound. 

“Lance is coming back,” He murmured. He stumbled to continue but she brought up a hand to stop him. He’d been grateful to not have to explain himself. 

“Ah I get it,” She’d said, arms crossed over her chest at that point. “You’ll have them by tomorrow.” 

He had given her a smile of gratitude before leaving, a little grin that could convey far more than his stuttering speech, to which Allura had replied with a wink. 

“Go get em tiger.” 

  
+++

 

Keith is standing in front of their apartment door. A flicker and a flash as a film reel repeats itself on a loop in his head.

_ taking in the lights on the ceiling, laced with black spray paint of other art students messing around, scattered bits and pieces. … _

_ … _

_ a door with an upside down seven hanging from a screw. _

 

He looks to Lance, climbing down from the trapdoor in the roof onto a stepladder. He touches down on the floor, sneakers on paint-stained carpet, looking over at Keith with a slight smile. 

But on the corner of his lip, a small bit of sapphire. A little anxiety at the edge of his mouth. He’s expectant, but nervous. Worried. 

Keith turns to him. He can still taste cigarette smoke on his tongue as well as that amethyst. 

He’s afraid. 

 

Keith had spent a large amount of his life being afraid. Afraid of where he’d be sleeping that night, of monsters, of talking in front of people. He’d been afraid of House Number One and his 5th grade teacher. 

 

But now he was afraid of Lance. 

Of how he might react to what was on the other side of the door. 

 

“This is…” Keith starts, stops. Pauses. “You know I’m not that good with words.” 

Lance shrugs. 

“I don’t know about that Mr Poet,” He replies. A flash of mischievous blue. Keith lets out a small laugh at that, the stabbing amethyst in his heart softening a little. 

“Maybe for things,” he continues, watching Lance’s hands. Smattered with freckles and kissed caramel by the sun. “Things I can see. But feelings? I can never get the… words right.” 

He lets his eyes flicker to Lance’s then hurriedly back to his own bandaid covered hands. 

“That’s why I painted that thing in my room,” Keith mumbles. He’s scratching at the plasters over his fingers now as if trying to tug them loose. “Because that’s the way I can show things. Feelings that I can’t even explain or sometimes don’t even know I have.” 

He pauses to think again. 

And Lance, as he always does, lets him. 

“Do you remember that art show?” Keith asks. “The one that I… Didn’t tell you about.” 

Lance nods, the smile failing and falling into a look of slight confusion. 

“I didn’t want you to see it because there were…” Another pause. A lapse. Comfortable despite the silence. “There were feeling there that I didn’t understand myself. And it was too much for me to show someone. But now I want to.”

 

“ _So the door’s always open,” Lance says. “Literally and figuratively. But sometimes it jams up so you have to give it a good kick..."_

Keith spins to his side, face-to-face with the upside down number seven at eye level. 

And he kicks it open. 


	18. Aawake at Night (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three artworks and some hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter this time! the next one will be up soon but i decided this bit should be on its own so i hope you enjoy :D same song as the last chapter, please give it a listen! it's perfect for these two chapters.

"My heart is like the ocean searching  
Searching for the shore I’m learning  
 _There must be something more than dreaming..."_

 

Lance is taken aback. 

The sudden action he feels like a blow to the chest but without pain, only amazement. The awe winding him.  

The door slams open, Keith in the doorway and Lance peering in from the side. They’re close; enough for Lance to feel Keith’s bandaged hand on the back of his own. A coarse but warm assurance that he was  _ here _ and the he was with  _ him _ . 

The boy he loved. 

Keith looks at him nervously, bringing his hand up to the other to scratch at it. The warmth leaves Lance and he turns, meeting Keith’s worried eyes. 

“I-it’s inside,” he stutters out. Lance can see him trembling. But there’s something there, something like eagerness in his eyes underneath the tremors. A topaz in a faultline.“I’ll follow behind.” 

Lance watches him for a moment before nodding, stepping inside his apartment. 

_ Their  _ apartment. 

He’d lived there for four years, since his first day in college. 

He and Hunk had moved in eagerly, paying no mind to the upside down seven, the spray paint in the halls or the busted door. Then he’d left, hurriedly and with apologies on the wings of a plane and Lance had felt the emptiness in every unoccupied corner, every lingering dust mote in the air. He tried to fill it with artwork after artwork, portraits in place of companionship. It had never really worked. 

And then Keith. 

He’d nervously slotted himself into his life, shaking hands and chapped bleeding lips. He was there for the nightmares, there to hold him when the empty corners shook him to his core, there when it was all too much. But he was also there when the ice in his breath became a warm mist; when Keith’s presence wasn’t just thawing but nurturing. 

Paint stains on walls, bandaged hands, dark eyes and rosemary. 

__  
  


It hits him again in a wave. The overwhelming affection, the sudden wash of warmth on his wrists. He brings his hands up to his mouth as he looks into the apartment. 

He looks at the paintings arranged on the wall of the living room, the couch pushed aside to make way for the art there. 

Three pieces. 

__  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

All blue. 

__  
  
  


 

 

 

He feels tears welling up in his eyes, blue as the ocean in his heart. Lapping against the walls of his ribcage, being shaken into a frenzied storm by what he’s seeing. Everywhere, on every canvas and every wall. Everywhere he sees blue. 

Lance was looking at himself. 

A painting done with acrylic, laid thick on the coarse weaves of the canvas, a mesh of shades and tones. An image of a boy asleep, but the blankets and pillows he sleeps amongst are waves and sea foam. Seaweed and kelp tangles loosely in his hair, fish floating above his head like a lopsided halo. 

Each one of his freckles shines, glimmers like fish scales on the boy’s cheeks; Lance’s cheeks. 

Lance had lived with his face long enough to know each freckle and blemish, each dot and dimple. But Keith had painted them. Keith, who had only known him for a year had looked close enough to see everything. 

The second work were his hands, clasped around a coffee cup with his order scrawled on it in sharpie. A mocha with two sugars, the sweet smell radiating from the piece. There’s water submerging everything, a slight glow from somewhere in the distance illuminates it as fish bubble around his fingertips. He can see every freckle and mark painted with striking detail that mimics his own so perfectly Lance can’t help but feel amazed. Warm at being so noticed. 

He steps forward, around to the final painting as Keith trails behind. 

The last one is himself on the couch, a blanket over his shoulders. His hair is swayed by the ocean that surrounds him, but the surface only reaches just passed the top of his head. The rest of the space is completely dry. Somehow Lance knows that the blanket is red. The same way he knew all of the paintings were blue. He sees Keith poetry in every blank space, words written without text or ink. He can feel the colour in each piece and it speaks to him with Keith’s voice. Rosemary and graphite, bandages and shaking hands. 

He turns to Keith and realises there are tears in his eyes. He can’t move, can’t speak. He just shakes, unable to get words out. 

Nervously, slowly.

A gentle flame. 

Keith reaches forward and brings his hand to Lance’s face, wiping the tears from his eyes with his thumb. Lance laughs, smiles, brings up his hand to hold Keith’s on his face, Lance’s palm on the bandages on Keith’s fingers. 

And Lance realises that Keith’s eyes are the deepest brown he’s ever seen. 


	19. Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see a supernova.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we did it everyone!   
> i know i say it a lot, but thank you all so so so so SO much for supporting this fic and me. it's been almost two years now and this as well as all of you have meant so much to me over this time. there's another chapter coming after this (maybe two depending) and i will do a proper thank you then!   
> honestly, this has been an incredible journey and the first story i have ever finished writing and i thank you all for sticking with me throughout it. it would never have existed were it not for all of you.   
> i'm sorry this chapter is so short, but the next one will be much longer.   
> song is edge by wooly mammoth. i recommend it, it's lovely

"Do you feel you heart,

Beating in your chest? 

The rise and fall 

_of every breath?"_

 

There’s a moment, the briefest second where Keith and Lance are so lost in each other that they barely exist themselves. That their own heartbeat is subdued compared to the one they can feel in their tangled fingers and touching skin. 

Then it passes. And they are themselves again. Keith’s hand on Lance’s cheek starts to shake again, the serene stillness falling away with a ripple. A tremor. Lance blinks and drops his hand, Keith’s falling too. He feels the warmth leave his cheek, but it stays in his hand; their fingers entwined. 

“Lance I-” Keith stops and stutters over his words. Halting sounds that seem to get lost to the hammering of his heart. Lance can feel his pulse in his thumb, thrumming through his arm as if it was his own. Lance waits patiently for Keith to find words, to recite the poetry he knows is there. The waves behind them swirl as the artworks wait, suspended by Keith’s baited breath. 

“I told you that I’m not good with explaining feelings,” Keith continues. He steps closer, the slightest of movements. Towards rather than away. “That’s why I did this. But I want to try and tell you that I-” 

Keith swallows back the amethyst that’s trying to suffocate him, shoving it down deep.  _ Not today  _ he tells it.  _ Now is not the time.  _

He meets Lance’s eyes. Still as blue as the day he met him, deep and cobalt with something Keith doesn’t recognise. He musters up every ounce of courage, every memory of mulberry and lilac to say the words. To get them  _ out of him.  _

He takes a breath, squeezes Lance’s hand a little and speaks. 

__  
  
  
  
  


“I think I might be in love with you Lance.” 

__  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


His eyes widen, everything falling away for a moment, memories swirling around him in a dizzying storm. He can’t believe it. Can’t believe that Keith feels the same. His heart races, thrums in his chest. 

And Lance laughs. Not with cruelty or because he finds it funny. Keith knows that laugh, the slightly bitter one that Lance does when he talks about his family or anatomy. But this laugh is one he hasn’t heard from him before. Lance smiles at him, all caramel and white chocolate. Sweet enough to make Keith feel dizzy. He feels sapphire glowing through that smile, spilling onto his cheeks as he cries again. But he’s grinning so wide Keith can’t help but smile back, mimic the laugh as best as his nervous voice will let him. 

“What?” he asks. Equal parts curious and afraid of what the answer might be. Lance uses his free hand to wipe the drops of sapphire from his freckled cheeks. 

“It’s just that…” Lance laughs again. Not just laughs, but  _ giggles _ before he can finish his sentence. He moves towards Keith, bringing his hand up tentatively to hold Keith’s face. Keith leans into the touch without realising it, feeling the warmth on his cheek like sunlight, the sapphire still lingering like petrichor on his fingertips. “I think I might be in love with you too.” 

__  
  
  


Keith’s eyes widen in surprise, the death grip on Lance’s hand softening as Keith’s lungs fill with mulberry. Purple so strong he feels it everywhere. Relief, joy, affection and an overwhelming  _ fondness  _ for the boy in front of him, the person holding his hand and his face in his palms. 

The boy he loved. 

Lance leans forward slowly. Hesitantly. The setting sun making everything yellow, red, purple in a technicolour swirl of tones. 

Lance is asking him a question, his body shifting to accommodate Keith’s. 

And Keith. 

Keith doesn’t hesitate to answer, bringing his free hand to the small of his back, the fingers of his right hand still laced in Lance’s like the threads of a tapestry. He answers Lance’s question with his body moving forward. His body relaxing into freckled arms, his eyes fluttering closed...

__  
  


...He leans forward and meets Lance’s lips with his own.

__  
  
  


+++

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A supernova is when a star brightens in a catastrophic explosion, expelling its mass into the void in a spectacle so bright it can be seen 33 light years away. A supernova is destruction and an end, the ultimate rupture of what once was.

Yet here Keith was, on the inside of a supernova and thinking that it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

Everything was coloured purple, his hands in Lance’s hair, the glowing sensation of his fingertips on Keith’s neck, the neon freckles on his cheeks, the taste of Lance’s laughter on his tongue, sweet caramel and honey. 

It was awkward at first, teeth clacking together and hands flailing with no idea where they should be. Bumping foreheads and laughs in between their lips locking as the two tried to figure out where they fit with each other, trying to find which pieces would slot together just right. Laughter that bubbled between them and burst bright from their connected bodies in solar flares, shimmered in each kiss. It was something so wild and so  _ electric _ that it’s left them both feeling dizzy and ecstatic. 

See, Keith was never good at firsts, but he didn’t have enough time to even think about his first kiss with Lance because there was another and another following quickly behind. It was overwhelming in the best possible way and he felt himself whisked away in it all, Lance’s hands in his hair and Keith holding him as close as he could with his arms tight around his waist. 

Time slips by in a haze, a giggling mess as the two fall onto the couch, the supernova slowing to a dull glow as Lance trips and Keith falls on top of him with a slight yelp of surprise. 

No longer enthralled in each other, Lance looks at Keith for a long moment, laughter still speckled lilac in his deep brown eyes. He puts his hands on Keith’s face, holding him gently and with such great affection Keith can feel tears stinging in his eyes. He looks at him solemnly, scanning every inch of his face. He opens his mouth to speak just when Keith is beginning to feel uncomfortable with his silent gaze. Lance’s face cracks into a grin so wide and bright it’s almost blinding. 

A supernova smile.

“Okay so,” Lance says, almost matter-of-factly. His eyes sparkle, sunlight glinting over the waves. “I am  _ definitely  _ in love with you.” 

Keith takes a moment, thrown slightly off-guard. 

Then he falls apart into giggles, leaning down to kiss Lance again. 

“I love you too Lance,” Keith murmurs before his lips find Lance’s. 

And another supernova begins. 

**Author's Note:**

> i have a playlist for this fic which is here: https://open.spotify.com/user/centennary/playlist/17iXtpOETVKOVNne8ZYtY8 , feel free to give it a listen!  
> i'm mostly inactive on tumblr, however my twitter account @tea_jpg always has something on it so if you want to chat hmu there! if you like, tag anything you've got with fic: ecys (i check it regularly).  
> thank you, as always, for your continued support and interest in this fic. it wouldn't exist without all of you :)


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